Strings
by Silential
Summary: What if the Joker was telling the truth about his wife and his scars? Returning to Gotham, Anna pledges to help the police find him. Yet when she is used as bait and comes face to face with him again, she sees that some scars never heal. Post-TDK Joker/OC
1. Chapter 1

(A/N: The Joker is perhaps my favorite character ever, and I love any story with him in it. While I personally think the story about his father is probably the correct one, I couldn't put his other tale from my mind. What if he was telling the truth about his wife? This takes place right after the movie. Enjoy!)

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or the Joker, but I wish I did….

--

He found it impossible to sit at his predecessor's desk for very long.

The chair, the desk, the office: all symbols of his newfound authority, symbols of the weight of Gotham's sins now thrust upon his shoulders. There were already half a dozen living symbols running wildly around the city, causing havoc and putting it right again – the last thing Gotham needed was another one, especially one that did not live up to his name. Or even accept his name, for that matter. He still thought of himself as Lieutenant, inwardly wincing whenever a rookie addressed him by his new title, the tone of awe unmistakable at his position.

No, he could never sit in that chair for long.

And so he paced the battered carpet, waiting on word of the Joker's arrival at the MCU, itching to be down in the interrogation rooms with the others. He had no illusions, of course, about gleaning anything of importance – his last encounter with the madman had taught him that – but a hushed form of excitement simmered within his brain anyway. Peering through the glass panels of the one way mirror, he had glimpsed something in the Joker's hooded eyes, something his mind still struggled to unlock on so many levels. Fascination was not the least of it; the commissioner was, as they said, a twenty-year lifer, and in all of his twenty years, he had not seen anything quite like this man who had no name.

But a man _has_ a name, has a history, or he is no man at all.

His brow furrowed at the direction his thoughts were taking, warily approaching them as one does a sleeping tiger.

As far as he knew, no heart in Gotham had ever beaten as one with that of the madman, no man, woman, or child had ever opened their arms to him as a friend. Loneliness was a crushing force; it settled upon the chest and slowly bled every ounce of sanity from its unwilling host. The faces of his own wife and children flashed unbidden through his mind, the smiles of his friends and loved ones the moorings which kept his soul from drifting into the abyss.

Without these, was it so surprising then that the Joker had been swept away?

He brushed aside such thoughts; this was no time for pity. The man was a murderer, and would have taken hundreds of lives that night without blinking an eye. His more than likely miserable past notwithstanding, he was nigh inhuman in his current state. Pity could come when he was behind bars, sedated and reduced to the common human condition of sleep.

A sudden knock at his door roused him from such introspection, the door opening to admit the cobalt-suited form of his new Lieutenant, William Burns. Burns's face shone with a thin sheen of sweat, his salt-and-pepper hair unkempt and forgotten.

"What is it, Lieutenant?" Gordon struggled to keep the dread from his voice. In a city like Gotham, the answer was almost never a good one.

His subordinate swallowed heavily before replying, standing just inside the flickering light of the room. "Well, uh, Commissioner Gordon, the Joker, he, uh…." The lieutenant took a deep breath. "He escaped, sir. In transit."

Gordon closed his eyes.

The commissioner could feel the icy stone of dread dropping heavily into his stomach. After all of this – the hostages, the ferry situation, Harvey Dent, all the fruit of a deranged mind making for one hellish night in an already hellish week – he had been able to escape yet again.

Gordon managed to breathe a single word. "How?"

"The SWAT boys failed to notice a metal shard he had secreted in the cuff of his shirt. Picked the lock on the handcuff and knifed one of the men, stole his gun." The lieutenant shrugged uneasily. "I'm sure you can guess what happened then, Commissioner. No survivors. No hostages. It was simpler than they were expecting."

Gordon opened his mouth to speak, but his subordinate already knew the question.

"The van was found abandoned at the docks ten minutes ago. We've already sent men to collect what they can from it."

"So he's gone?"

"He's gone."

"_Goddamn_ _it_." Gordon sighed heavily, absentmindedly smoothing back his graying hair with one gunpowder blackened hand. "Send out some teams to scan the area. If he's found a car, he could be anywhere in Gotham by now, but it's worth a try. Keep the lines open for any reports of stolen vehicles from that section of the city."

The lieutenant nodded brusquely, his olive skin shining oddly in the yellow lamplight. "Will do, Commissioner."

Gordon began to turn away, reaching for the phone to try and make sense of this mess. He had a feeling that more than a few irate phone calls would be made tonight.

"Oh, and, Commissioner?"

He nodded half-heartedly that he was listening, the life having been drained out of him at the thought of repeating this entire fiasco for nights to come. The Joker saw capture as nothing more than a game, though judging by the speed and no-nonsense efficiency of his escape, he had tired of it for now.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Putting the phone up to his ear, he checked that the line was secure and began to dial the mayor's office.

"There's a woman downstairs who says she knows who he is."

Gordon's hand paused over the phone, a thousand thoughts flickering through his mind. Leaving the number unfinished, he slowly returned the receiver to its hook, the urge to trust his lieutenant struggling with a cop's cynicism. The battle was brief, true to his nature; an odd spark of hope had returned to his heart as he faced his subordinate once more. Perhaps this was the first ray of dawn.

"And do you believe her?"

Burns beckoned for the commissioner to follow and turned on his heel, grimacing as the unnatural fluorescent light of the hallway consumed him.

"Yes… and you'll soon see why."

--

The solid steel door slammed shut behind them, dividing MCU from the rest of the police department and its seething loyalties. Not much was left of Major Crimes to separate, of course, after the Joker's clever IED had done its work, but the staff were working on it. A few of the offices had been salvaged and put to use, ramshackle and mismatched chairs dragged from other parts of the building to furnish what was left of the once bustling department. Many of the officers who were out on the streets that night had already returned to their scorched and blasted cubicles, silently thankful that for all the pain they had suffered in pursuit of the mob, they had not been left behind to face the madman's firestorm. They sat now upon anything that could hold their weight – remnants of chairs, trash cans, stools, all bearing the same haggard and worn expression of men who had walked through Hell.

An expression no doubt mirrored upon his own visage.

"So where is she?" Gordon scanned the scenes of industrial carnage, silently wondering how many of the faces present he could actually trust.

Burns raised a hand, indicating the one complete office left standing. Yesterday, this would have been Wortz'; now, it was the one decent place on the floor. A flash of bittersweet irony darted through Gordon's mind, but he was not given enough time to savor it.

Stopping at the door, the lieutenant rapped at the frosted pane, placing his hand on the knob. "She's in here, and I suggest you don't stare." He ignored his superior's bewilderment at the comment, keeping his gaze forward and smoothly admitting them to the stuffy office.

It was relatively unchanged, Gordon noted, except for the knick-knacks and files blown messily from their shelves.

And, of course, the dark-haired woman sitting stiffly with her back to the door.

Clearing his throat, he stepped closer to the battered desk, curious to catch a glimpse of the mystery woman who had arrived like a lightning strike out of the clear blue sky. A large black overcoat swathed her shoulders, seemingly leather, though he could not quite make out the name. The skin of her neck was quite pale, he noted, producing a chiaroscuro against the dark tresses so elegantly bound with ribbon. Slim and elegant boots completed the ensemble, her legs crossed neatly in front of her.

His words were heartfelt, he could not afford to lose this opportunity. "I'm Commissioner Gordon, and you know Lieutenant Burns. Any information in catching or identifying the criminal known as the Joker would be much appreciated."

Turning to face her, he extended his hand.

His eyes widened in shock, hand falling limply to his side.

The scars crisscrossing her pale features marred her flesh like the railroad mars the pristine snow of winter. She grinned then, and a dull horror worked its way through his brain.

All of Gotham knew the scores she bore.

--

I promise you, this will be a very intricate mystery and love story – I already have it planned. Anna's no Mary-Sue, and I'm hoping I can keep the Joker in character. Sorry that this opening is a bit slow, but it was needed for effect. I tried to weave some themes in there as well. She's not going to reveal all of his secrets, of course, and when she is taken as bait... she might just wish she never attempted to find him at all.

Please review and tell me how I am doing!


	2. Chapter 2

(_A/N: Wow, all of my reviewers are **wonderful**! I don't know what I would do without you all; you are infinitely encouraging. Please accept my wholehearted thanks for your kind comments. I hope I don't disappoint! This is also the last chapter in Gordon's POV._ Enjoy!)

Disclaimer: Nothing of Batman or the Joker belongs to me, though that would be nice…

--

He could not take his eyes off of her.

As if in a dream, he had grasped the hand she politely offered, gaze fixated on the civil grin rendered absolutely terrifying by the ropey cords scaling her otherwise smooth cheeks like pale creepers. Some distant voice in the back of his mind reprimanded him for such discourtesy, but God help him, it was almost surreal seeing that smile on another living human being. The malice and insanity of the Joker were absent, of course, but the Glasgow smile Gordon was used to seeing masked in smeared crimson paint struck fear into his heart all the same.

Blessedly, she wasn't wearing lipstick.

The seconds stretched on and he had not released her hand, a fact registering as a slight twitch of genuine amusement in her perfunctory smile. Light green eyes falling pointedly to their hands, she remained silent as he hastily let go, walking quickly to the opposite side of the scorched desk. Pulling back the mismatched chair, he felt his age as he lowered himself into it, embarrassment written plainly upon his features.

She leaned forward slightly, her voice laced with an amused tone that did not quite reach her eyes.

"You're not the first, Commissioner." Raising a hand, she waved away any notion of resentment in that casual manner of routine, as if this sort of situation happened to her on a daily basis.

His eyes taking in the countless silver streaks along her features, Gordon realized that it probably did. The smile, it seemed, was not the only symbol his guest was forced to bear. Clearing his throat, he tried to ignore the harsh web of pain slowly becoming visible to his eyes, more of the jagged off-white marks coming out of the woodwork with each moment of inspection.

"Did _he _do that to you?"

"No."

Gordon released the breath he hadn't known he was holding. That fear had wended its way through the channels of his heart from the moment he glimpsed the extent of her injuries.

She seemed unfazed by his relief, her words more an afterthought than actual revelation. "If you go back far enough, you might say they were my own fault."

His compassion bubbling to the surface, he appraised her as he might a niece or the daughter of a close friend. He had seen enough young women end up in the wrong situations in this city, and the usual consequences were often much worse than a scar. "So _he_ had nothing to do with it...?"

Tilting her head to the side, she appraised him shrewdly, thin lips tightening in concentration. "Commissioner, there is no reason to keep referring to him so generally. He is what he is now, and that is the Joker. You aren't about to offend me."

He could feel her eyes searching his face for some sort of a reaction, but kept it judiciously neutral. One phrase in particular had intrigued him; with any luck she would elaborate. As it was, she sighed and relaxed into her chair, scars puckering oddly as she gave him a somber half-smile.

"But no, Commissioner, he had nothing to do with these." One hand casually gestured to her burden. "These…. pre-date his own. At least on the outside."

Now he was getting somewhere. Seeing that Burns had already guessed his intention, Gordon reached behind him, grabbing the bottle of sipping scotch Wortz had left for situations like these. This wasn't something they taught you in the academy, but nothing worked quite like a stiff glass of scotch to make a potential informant feel his most talkative. Not the best, but it would do.

"Before we start formal questioning, would you like some scotch, miss…?"

"Anna." Her eyes followed the bottle.

"Ah, Anna, pleased to make your acquaintance." He swirled the golden liquid gently. "Burns, fetch us some glasses, will you? We should make Anna feel at home."

Swiftly raising her hand in protest, she half-turned to the lieutenant, a hardness entering her previously relaxed features. "That really won't be necessary, Commissioner. But… I thank you for your hospitality all the same." She turned around only once Burns had returned to his seat at Gordon's nod, satisfied that no glass would be brought to her, no opportunity to partake in the alcohol she had so studiously trailed with her gaze.

There was a hunger there, one Gordon recognized very well.

He replaced the scotch on the shelf behind him, struggling to assemble some sort of commissioner detachment; he abandoned his pity at the door and critiqued her as a potential informant. The gentle angles of her face, leather coat concealing all traces of clothing, the slight curve to her nose no doubt the result of its fracturing on more than one occasion. Nothing very threatening in her demeanor or what he could guess was an average frame.

"So you were saying, Anna? You sound like you knew him before the rest of us."

"Knew him quite well, in fact."

The commissioner could sense a Comstock Lode's worth of information, if only he could penetrate her ambiguity. "Would you mind sharing some of your knowledge with us then? As I said before, anything would be appreciated."

She sighed once more, as if surprised he could not see the underlying problem with the situation. Returning her hands to her lap, she schooled her features into an expression of icy impartiality. "Commissioner, these are dangerous times… and you more than anyone would know how much. I returned to Gotham at the risk of my own safety, and I don't intend to brazenly risk it any further."

"Of course, you want protection. That can be provided; presuming you demonstrate what you know is of use. Our men –"

"– are useless. I watch the news, Commissioner." Her tone was terse, emerald eyes blazing with intensity and intelligence. Silent insinuations crept into his ears, eliciting a grimace of the highest caliber.

Catching his lieutenant's attention, he jerked his head, ignoring the other's stunned expression. Gordon had had a feeling that it might come to this, but he would under no circumstances discuss it within another's hearing. He trusted Burns, but he had been proven wrong before. Very, very wrong.

Heart jumping at the sound of the slamming door, he returned his gaze to the mystery woman, an odd silence existing between them. She had planned out this meeting rather carefully, he figured.

"If I am going to help you, I don't want the mob's cronies guarding my door at night. One," she held up a finger, "they're corrupt and likely to off me anyway. Two, they're too obvious. Three, you'll be left with a bloodbath on your hands when he finally _does_ find me."

Mustering all the intimidation within his character, which to be fair was not much, he leaned across the desk. "Now miss, I don't know who you think you're dealing with here, but the Commissioner does not take orders from a civilian –"

"I'm no ordinary civilian, sir." Anna grinned, sending an involuntary spasm through the commissioner's heart. "Now the way I see it, I can't hide for long. I've been following this story rather closely, and it seems like _no_ o_n_e can. Eventually, commissioner, he's going to find out that I'm in town. And, commissioner, he'll come after me. I'm a practical woman by nature, so I figured – why not use this to our advantage?"

Gordon could barely believe what he was hearing. Either the woman was insane or had one hell of a death-wish. "So what exactly _are_ you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting that we let him come after me, when we're ready, of course."

Definitely one hell of a death-wish.

"I'll leave the details up to you and your… _friend_," she added, "but I want to make it clear that I am willing to help you. Even if it comes to putting myself on the line."

Smoothing back his hair, the commissioner could only sigh gustily, wishing that he had never bothered getting out of bed that morning. Insane lunatics, close-call ferry fireworks, and now the decision to act on what was either the single greatest lead he had so far been given or the single worst possible mistake he could make. He probably should start with basics; no normal individual risked their own life in this town.

"Assuming that he would come after you, why would you give yourself up in the first place?"

Just when he thought he had her figured out - _money, definitely for money _his cop sense gibed - she threw him a curve ball once more. The restrained fury noticeably extinguished, her features softened, a thousand different emotions flitting behind her eyes like moths behind a lamp. Voice dropping half an octave, it no longer carried the rapier-like edge it had but a moment ago. "As I said, commissioner, I watch the news. I can't…" She trailed off, her gaze far away and inside herself. "I can't just sit back and… and watch the world burn, not like he can. I removed the linchpin."

"You don't fear death?"

"Of course I do. But I have time and hopefully a powerful friend on my side."

The question left his mouth before he could think. "Then are you doing this for us, Anna, or for you?"

Her eyes snapped upwards at the seemingly innocent question, some internal combustion within her soul stoking the fire in her eyes once more. Gone was the introspection he had fortunately glimpsed, the noble uncertainty replaced by the icy exterior that marked a woman of Gotham. Watching as the steel armor fell back into place, Gordon could only wonder what labyrinthine passages lie behind those eyes.

"That is a rather foolish question, commissioner – you should know the answer. He was mad before my leaving, only quietly so." Her voice was iron sheathed in velvet, its sharp edge slicing through the air with authority. She locked gazes with his, making Gordon wish he knew how to stare down a woman. "It wasn't any fault of mine."

Unable to take it, he cleared his throat and broke the connection, the hair at the back of his neck prickling at her words. Something in her voice encouraged him to trust her, some raw element of truth that all the iciness in the world could not obscure. Perhaps he had found his first ray of dawn after all, if she would cooperate. If only she would reveal the leverage she so dutifully danced around, dangling it before his eyes.

"Nothing you've said strikes me as very significant, Anna – if that is your real name, of course. I don't believe he would come after you."

"Want to _bet_?" She grinned, the scars stretching eerily from ear to ear. Leaning forward, she placed her hands on the desk in front of him.

"I'm his wife. _Ex_-wife."

--

I hope you all enjoyed that! It was definitely very fun to write – though sorry that this was in Gordon's POV again, I promise it ends now. I tried to put little indications of her character without coming out and saying her personality. The _real story _starts next chapter – it's in her POV as the situation unfolds and the mystery becomes apparent, because when you're dealing with the Joker (or his wife) nothing is as simple as it seems…. And who knows, maybe the Joker will be showing up? wink

Please review!


	3. Chapter 3

**(A/N: WOW, Thank you again to all of my reviewers! I especially want to thank the anonymous reviewers here. Everyone has been extremely supportive, and I appreciate that more than I can say! This isn't a past-lover-catches-the-Joker story. There are flashbacks in here, written in italics. Enjoy!) **

**Disclaimer: Batman is not mine. **

--

Her feet were taking her who knew where, just like old times.

Sighing, she kicked at a stone, listening as it skittered down the nearest alley, cutting a swathe through the gravel which coated the streets on the sweeper's off days. Some things never changed, no matter what dark hero was patrolling the boulevards and hopefully keeping an eye on her too every once in awhile. Anna had not asked for a babysitter, needless to say, but she would like to feel comfortable knowing that the Joker's leering, bloodshot eyes were not following her every move.

Would he play with her long when the time came?

Shivering, she brushed such consideration aside, furious with herself for entertaining the paranoid thoughts of a trapped rat. They had been creeping up on her more and more as the days dragged on, swirling around her head as she sat in silence or watched another meaningless television program, her phone a constant presence beside her hand. Gordon had promised he would call when he had arranged a meeting with Gotham's famous protector, that was, after she had submitted to more of his little interviews. Revealing what she needed of _his_ personality to lessen his inhuman quality, she had surrendered no further to Gordon's probing questions, some twisted part of her holding out until a weary commissioner had tired of the game and told her to go home.

That had been over two weeks ago.

Two weeks of twiddling her thumbs and wondering if behind every door there lurked a silenced pistol held in one purple gloved hand. The operation had strayed down a different path than she had originally imagined, becoming less of a smash and grab job than she had planned. The idea was to beat him at his own game, not brood and brood until it came time to erect an elaborate plot just waiting for him to come punch a few holes. In her opinion, the commissioner and the Bat were approaching the problem from the wrong direction.

The objective was to reroute his misplaced rage upon the true culprit, hoping he would grow weary of tormenting Gotham if given a chance at more… personal prey. It was nothing more and nothing less, or at least that is what she told herself in the middle of the night. Some corner of her mind whispered that she was fooling only herself, that guilt and a host of other feelings had driven her here.

It was the same corner which murmured his name without end.

Pulling her overcoat tighter around her form, Anna paused, glancing up in shock at where her feet had unknowingly taken her. The red neon sign was a bit dirtier than she remembered though was as incorrect as always, the _ey's_ at the end of '_Barney's'_ having burned out a decade earlier. Only newcomers ever chuckled at the sign, the regulars either too jaded or too intoxicated to take much notice.

Now that she was here, it became the question of the hour: should she stop and a have a drink?

It wasn't as if Gordon was going to be calling anytime soon, she reminded herself crossly, and she certainly was not looking forward to another night of insomnia and infomercials. After the past two weeks of living on the edge, the least she deserved was a rest.

A little drink it was then.

--

The shot glass hit the counter with a clink.

Her throat burned brilliantly as the amber colored liquid slid its way down, relaxing her with the semblance of routine, the expected pain. Anna could feel her shoulders releasing the tension the last two weeks had ingrained, the hunger that had remained in the pit of her stomach since Gordon's first interview finally subsiding. As a present to herself, she had bought a better name than he had offered.

Leaning on her elbow, she scanned the length of the bar, recognizing the same haggard expressions, if not faces. Even Wally, the ever patient bartender of years ago, had seemingly left the forgotten hellhole that was the Barney's establishment. Not that that was surprising, if she was going to be honest with herself. It was a shabby place, and anyone in their right mind would try to escape.

She supposed that made her crazy.

Nonetheless, she was thankful that the lights were perennially dim here, providing at least partial cover for the condition of her face. Perhaps that was why she had always felt at home on one of these stools, relishing the lack of stares and underhanded comments made quite obviously behind her back. No one was looking at you if they were too busy looking into their own glass, searching for answers in the bottomless pit of their own depression.

As her eyes crept over the lonesome booths, cracked lamps, and bottles glittering in the diffuse light, she began to realize how little some things ever changed. Time blurred in the smoky haze of cigars and sea of smooth jazz – this could have been any day. Wally would be standing in his place next to the tap as she dragged herself inside, falling heavily onto a stool and ordering a vodka straight to start. He would listen as she gushed about her problems, about her husband and his mind games, or entertain her when she did not, a bastion of amusing stories and observations.

And as the night wore on those stories would becoming grimmer and she would drink her way onto the floor, watching the world spin around her and finding all of it so goddamn pathetic. That was, before the bar closed its doors and she was dragged once more onto the street, left to find her own way home.

She preferred those nights to when he came and got her.

_It was eight months before she left her husband. Nearly a year after the loan sharks had done their work. _

_A night like any other, Wally's face swimming in front of her eyes as he refilled her glass countless times. She sandwiched the newest shot between her hands, listening to the soft drone of the bartender as he spun some mob joke at the other end of the bar, the dim lights suddenly brighter than she remembered. Drifting in and out of her own thoughts, Anna waited for the punch line, readying herself for the shock of laughter to fill the smoky room. _

_But the laughter never came._

_Blinking, she realized that it wasn't a trick of her ears; he had halted his story just before the climax, the rest of the bar falling silent with him. There was only one thing in this world that would make Wally leave his joke unfinished, and it was the last thing she wanted to deal with right then._

_She did the only thing she could do – draw up her collar and hunch into the bar, thankful that she was the farthest from the door. Holding her breath, she began the waiting game and listened. _

_The door clicked shut behind him, the hard soles of his shoes audible on the tile. _

"_Where's my wife?" His voice was as taut and near the breaking point as always. "Where is she, _Wally, _good friend?" He drew out the barkeep's name, causing half the room to shudder at his tone. _

_The bartender was placating in spite of everything, nothing like good old Wally to assuage an irritated spouse. "She's fine. Listen, why don't you sit down and have a drink, and we'll –"_

"_I don't drink." Her husband's reply was sharp, and she could just imagine his hands twitching in that way of his. "And neither did she until… not that long ago, so we will not_ _talk about this." _

_The scrape of a bar stool as it was pulled back slightly, the hoarse voice of a patron she had met only a few times before carrying down the length of the counter. "Why you botherin' with that boozehound anyway, huh?" _

_If possible, the silence deepened. _

_When he finally spoke, she could hear the slight hysteria in his voice, even if no one else could. "I'm sorry, what was that, that you, uh… that you said?"_

"_I said, why you comin' to get her? No one's goin' to rape _that_. I mean just take a look…" _

_Three years later, and she would not forget what came next. _

_Her husband's husky whisper and a sharp scream that would haunt her for weeks, followed by crying and what would in her nightmares forever be "What the hell, man? What the hell?" as chaos erupted around him. He made his way to her calmly all the same, gaze searing a hole into her spine. _

_Swiveling around, she groaned at the sight of _him_, the sudden action causing her head to spin more than normal. He looked out of place, neat but worn suit buttoned tightly to his collar, tie still constricting his neck like a… a… whatever they called those snakes. His shirt was a deep shade of cobalt, but in this light it looked almost purple. The outfit repulsed her for reasons she could only guess at; her face riddled with scars, and _she_ was the one embarrassed by him. _

_She turned sullenly back to the bar as he approached, a frown pulling at her lips to pucker the scars. "I had hoped you were the health inspector." _

_Placing a hand on her shoulder, he ignored the comment, leaning close to her ear so as to be heard above the riotous commotion he had left near the door. His low tenor tickled her skin, odd speech patterns not as strange as they would eventually become. "It's four in the _morning_, Anna. You need to come home. I thought we agree-d –"_

_A growl escaping her throat, she lashed out with more speed than she thought she had, throwing his hand from her person and spinning to face him. "We agreed… _we_ agreed… _I _don't remember agreeing to anything." His visage and dirty blonde hair, like Wally's, swam in the sea of light, yet she was anchored by the critical intensity of his deep chocolate eyes. _

"_Of course you wouldn't." He sighed, attempting to pull her from the bar stool as gently as possible. "You're just going to make me out to be the, uh, the _bad_ guy." _

_Finding it too difficult to stand, she collapsed into him, sticking her finger to his chest even as he attempted to lead her away. "You know what's wrong with you?" She rolled her eyes, allowing him to half-carry half-drag her to the door. "Well, besides _a lot, _that is…" _

_His eyes glittered strangely, glued to the entrance as the disorder parted around them. "What's wron-g with me, darling?"_

_She hiccoughed, taking one last swig of her glass before it slipped from her fingers to shatter on the floor. "You worry too much." _

Days later, Wally would tell her that he had driven a wine opener through the other man's hand.

--

The shot glass joined its two siblings on the bar.

Wiping her mouth on a napkin, she drummed her fingers on the notched wooden counter, bronze rod digging into her ribs. If she kept this up, she doubted she would be finding her way home again, even if it was only late afternoon and surprisingly good weather for Gotham. And yet, assuming she found her way back to the apartment she rented from the tyrant upstairs, what was there to do anyway? Sit, wait, and watch Oprah.

Her mind made up with surprising lucidity, she hailed the bartender, asking for a glass of whatever beer he had on tap. The look he gave in response as his gaze danced over her scars was priceless, perhaps even comical if it were happening to anyone other than her – for a bartender, he had an awful poker face.

The thought of poker made her wince, and she eagerly swallowed some of the most awful lager she had ever tasted, the unappetizing liquid a safe haven in comparison to the direction her thoughts had been taking.

Cradling her beer, her glower crawled irritably to the television perched above the array of spirits, a large and gaudy machine she could not remember being there before. Some young thing was on the screen, and Anna could just make out her words, the volume turned down to its lowest setting in the quiet bar.

"Sarah Laurentson, filling in for Mike Engel and reporting live from Gotham Central on this, the two week anniversary of Assistant District Attorney Rachel Dawes' murder." The reporter was smiling, as if she had not announced a fact as utterly appalling as senseless killing. "We're here on Platform 117, investigating the horrific new developments in this game of cat-and-mouse. Around three pm today several large explosions were heard from within the freight tunnels, as well as the telltale sounds of gun shots. The police and rescue workers arrived at the scene only to find this left in his wake."

The camera flashed to the burned out remains of several freight trains as firefighters and paramedics rushed purposefully along the narrow stretch of platform, giving orders and taking them with the ease of breathing. Soot blackened the walls and more than a few faces, steam rising in billows from the still smoking wreckage. Three or four bodies of what looked like laborers were being loaded onto stretchers; the faces were quickly covered by sheets, but not before the camera captured the iconic greasepaint and joker cards tucked into their front pockets.

A light gasp rose from somewhere behind her.

Anna turned her attention back to the screen, beer forgotten in her hands. The pretty young thing was talking again. "Sources say these trains arrived early this morning with a shipment of undisclosed materials, having used false papers to gain entry into the station. The shipment was unloaded and, we assume, removed from the premises a half hour before the fire. Its current whereabouts and identity are unknown, but Channel Five is working tirelessly for the truth."

"Yeah, right." Anna snorted, sipping her beer once more. She had to admit, she was curious nonetheless, a twisted cord of anticipation snaking around her heart.

The television switched tactics as she sipped, finally interviewing one of the individuals at the scene, a man with flame orange hair. "This man, the Joker –" an image appeared on screen, stopping her heart for a few beats as she greedily absorbed his features, "He's a monster. Who knows what he wanted? More gasoline to blow us all up with probably."

The interview continued yet she paid no attention, the world having faded far from her realm of consciousness in wake of his grinning visage. Unable to breathe properly, she gulped, her lungs seeming to have refused the advice of her brain in inflating as usual. A freeze-frame shot from one of his videos, it highlighted the jagged scars stealing from the corners of his mouth, greasepaint smeared with relish upon the souvenirs of what she remembered as the worst night of her life. Insanity _burned _from within the very pits of hell, black paint the walls of the depraved and icy grotto which contained Satan himself.

He was a monster. A monster that still made her heart race, and not entirely in fear.

Some removed corner of her brain noted as a few of the patrons began to look first at the television and then at her, as if finally noticing the scars through the haze of their own little worlds. Some grumbled and stared outright, others fingered the glimmering edges of who knew what within their jackets.

It was definitely time to go.

Reaching into her pocket, Anna pulled out her wallet, searching for a twenty. It left her hand to fall silently to the counter, a silence echoed in her careful footsteps through the door of purgatory and into the sunshine once more.

She never noticed the guarded pair of eyes that followed her form as it left the lonely tavern, taking careful note of her every movement. Later that night, that same pair of eyes would glow in impatient delight as the scene from the bar made its way into the ear of the Clown Prince himself.

Those watching said he laughed hysterically at his own joke as he quite literally, shot the messenger.

--

_**Please review! I hope you enjoyed this! Brownies… alright, brownie points, to whoever reviews! **_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you again to all of those who reviewed! I honestly cannot thank you all enough for being so kind to this story - what would I do without you? **

**Disclaimer: Batman is not mine. **

**Joker's here! Enjoy! **

A good shower was undoubtedly one of life's most underrated little pleasures, she figured contentedly.

Anna deftly spun the knob and shut off the steaming water, reaching for the towel on the rack just outside the stall. Stepping out of the claustrophobic glass box, she hummed along with the ancient radio perched precariously on the lip of the sink, saved from countless junk pick-ups for situations like these. Nothing was worse than the crushing silence of an empty flat after the roar of water ceased, the reminder of loneliness apparent to both her eyes _and _her ears.

At least the bar had always contained the low hum of a human voice every once in a while.

Of course, not _all _human voices deserved to be heard, she reflected, remembering the three months she spent at her over-worked sister's house in Jersey. Dear god, ninety days of nothing but serving as the unwilling nanny to all those screeching children had very clearly reminded her why she had chosen not to have any early in life. What was supposed to be time for her to get back on her feet after a nasty separation had nearly changed into time spent on her back with a never-ending migraine.

It was those three months that taught her the value of a radio in drowning out both silence and the taunting of children. Of course, the... _argument_ she had had with her sister the day before she left precluded any further experience with the latter.

The overly cheery song, so different from the tone of her thoughts, ended after a few moments and another began without ado, the disc jockey announcing over the opening notes that she had arrived at the 'Home of the 70s' for the remainder of the night, as if she could not tell for herself. It was a home she very much wanted to trick-or-treat and leave, but it was one of the few stations that came in clearly on her level of the building. But beggars and choosers, and all that drivel.

She bet the tyrant upstairs received all the stations he wanted.

Staring sightlessly into the steamed-over mirror, she toweled off her medium length hair, the black strands as straight as ever between the soft folds. It was one of the few occasions she could stand to peer into a mirror, the time right after a scalding shower when she could not tell if the lines scoring her hazy visage were the painful tracks of scars or beads of steam dripping mournfully into the sink. Her vanity had faded long before, but it didn't mean she had to torture herself day in and day out with what could never be changed.

Eyes fixated on the blurry image in the glass, the lavender comb ran easily through her limp tresses, keeping time with the opening beats of the next song. Unconsciously humming along, she nearly dropped the comb in surprise when she realized what it was. She would have sworn it should be banned from the airwaves, but then again, Gotham was determinedly without censorship and, more importantly, taste.

Folding up the towel, she could only shake her head at how awful a sound concerning jokers and clowns sounded in these times. Didn't stop her from singing along, of course, as she straightened up the tiny bathroom, the last remnants of the alcohol buzz swirling in her head like so many tiny bubbles. Her voice had never been the best, but she doubted the dust mites and mold spores would have an opinion either way. Even if they did, they need not suffer long as she didn't know the rest of the words, leaving it playing as she made for the bedroom across the hall.

It wasn't much of an apartment, the smallest on the floor and still testing her budget every month. Her square footage was the size of a millionaire's garage, she figured, and even that probably had a better view than a Chinese laundry. One bedroom and bath, a kitchenette, living/dining room she assumed she'd never use, a few closets scattered here and there to fill whatever space was left over. She'd leased it for six months, the shortest length of time her landlord offered; no need to pay for a year when her body could be hanging from a statue in half that.

She was ever the practical woman nowadays.

The Spartan furnishings of the room cast shadows over her bare feet as she padded to her bureau, picking out a convenient pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. Finer clothes tucked tight away in boxes at the self-storage downtown, she was left with only a few pairs of jeans and more somber blouses than she knew what to do with. Her shoulders felt oddly light at the absence of her ubiquitous overcoat, the heavy fabric coming to form her last line of defense against the world. It created a clear boundary between all that was her and the horrifying outside, penning in her personal demons and preventing another soul from scrutinizing her own darkest grottos.

Perhaps, if she ever allowed herself to think long on it, she would have noticed a bit of that in _him _as well. Or perhaps, a bit of his own psyche in _her?_

But best not to think of such things – especially in the dark.

Shadows leered at her retreating form as she changed quickly and left the room for the bright safety of the hallway, her stomach vociferously reminding her of the time. Ten in the evening was not an hour most people associated with dinnertime, but in her house it always seemed to be the most convenient. Demanding jobs, long commutes, inconsistent schedules – she had moved from the house of her workaholic father into the apartment of her workaholic husband.

Not that she didn't have more than her share of fun along the way, of course.

It was promising to be EasyMac again that night, a fact confirmed when her rather spare cabinets revealed nothing but rows of the familiar azure boxes. No matter her current state, she had been a fine cook in her time; she supposed she still was, even if instant macaroni had recently become her modus operandi. The last few years she had lacked the desire to make anything, the labor never being quite as enjoyable when it was for one.

Her hands moving with the dexterity of a cook accustomed to harder tasks, she selected a pot and let the somewhat suspicious faucet do its work, deftly putting it on to boil. Plucking the remote from the kitchen counter, she flipped on the television in the adjoining room, the ten o'clock news springing to life on the display and melding strangely with the melody in the hall.

"Good evening, Gotham. I'm Sarah Laurentson –"

Anna rolled her eyes and turned away, opening the fridge for some soda. That woman's high-pitched voice grated along her ear drums like an anchor along the sea floor.

"– and this is Frederick Appleby. We interrupt tonight's scheduled news segments, 'Remembering Rachel Dawes' and 'BatWatch,' with word that Channel Five has just received this latest message. Young children and viewers who disturb easily are advised to look away."

A few moments of silence held sway in her flat as the television switched over, with only the slight rustling of Anna fumbling through her cheese drawer for company.

As the video slowly began to play behind her, the telltale sounds of an amateur rattling a camera flooded her small living space, the whimpering of a gagged woman clothed in the dark gray of a train worker edging through the harsh metallic clicks. A soft hushing noise could be heard, followed by a ringing slap.

"You jus-t _couldn't_ kee-p a_way_… could ya?"

Dropping her soda and parmesan, Anna spun towards the source of that sing-song voice, her blood chilling at the burst of insane hilarity spewing from his smeared crimson lips. His grinning visage filled the entire length of the screen, eyes dancing as if they sought to pierce her through the borders of distance and time. They pinned her against the cool surface of the refrigerator, his trademark cackling racing through her body like electricity.

_He is talking about the Bat, he is talking about the Bat, not you, definitely not you. He doesn't know that you're here_. She repeated it as a mantra inside her head, the rational section of her brain panicking as she realized exactly how much trouble could be heading her way. And yet, a perverse thread of excitement began to course through her veins at the thought that maybe it _was _her.

That he was _thinking _about her.

She had no time to think of where that had come from before the camera pivoted towards the bound woman once more, recoiling futilely from the monster on the other end of the lens. Her hair, matted to her skull by sweat and tears, was pin straight, the hue the exact same shade as Rachel Dawes'.

The exact same shade as Anna's.

"But now, ha, that you're _heeere_," she could hear the soft pop as he smacked his lips, could imagine the pucker of the scars, "let's uh, let's have a little fun, shall we?"

Without warning he zoomed in on the captive's face, the rush giving Anna vertigo as the screen jostled back and forth. The lens greedily swallowed the image of her thrashing, a muffled scream buffeting its speakers as her gaze locked on whatever was coming towards her.

"See her?" He growled, voice just audible above the screaming, clicking, and God knew what else. "If you don't… _fin-d _me in twelve hours…" A sloshing noise as he fervently licked his lips, "I'm going to do to her what I've been uh, just _waiting_ to do to you."

The camera pulled back abruptly, revealing the gleaming tip of a switchblade as it traced a path down her neck, coming to rest at the skin just above the rise of her breasts. Her chest swelled with each panicked breath, hyperventilating as she tried not to choke on the tattered gag.

"Are you going to… _abandon_ her and the _next ones_, too?" A sudden shrill cackle before his voice swooped downwards to the bottom of its range. "I think it's time to show them your, uh, your _true_ co_lors_." The last word came out in a snarl; the r's overextended and arching in the way that used to make her shiver so many years ago, floating down the length of the bar.

Anna could do nothing but stare as the blade lightly kissed his victim's flesh, leaving a scarlet droplet in its wake. The camera paused to savor its agonizingly slow descent for a few moments, before springing awkwardly to his face once more.

Tongue sliding out to glide eagerly across his lips, it specially relished the uneven surface of the scars. "Don't ha... don't wait up for me, _darling_."

His laugh echoed inside her head long after the screen went dark.

A/N: And there it is, Ladies and Gentlemen...

_**Please review! **_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! A special thank you to my constant reviewers for without them, I wouldn't be so thrilled about and motivated to write this story! And here's to Shouri Majo, wickedthunder02, WornOutDancingShoes, curburdogg, and Brynnie-Chan124 who identified the song mentioned in the last chapter, "Stuck in the Middle with You." **

**Disclaimer: I don't known anything but Anna. **

**Enjoy! **

--

It was already four in the morning.

Her side blazing in protest, she sustained the brisk pace, swiftly entering and exiting the tiny realm of each streetlamp like a wraith. Heavy overcoat shrouding her form once again, it concealed the slim blade clutched within one ashen fist, trembling in her right pocket. The rigid feel of the warm handle was alien to her skin, years having passed since she had even looked twice at the switchblade and the memories it contained. It had been a gift from him on her twenty-sixth birthday, if she remembered correctly; matchless, a specialty piece. Or at least, that was what he had said.

Anna had seen its twin on the television six hours before, tormenting his latest victim.

A shiver coursed through her at the memory of the poor woman, her eyes rolling wildly in alarm, muffled screams edging past the gag to carry cleverly into the living room of the soul who rightly deserved to be in her place. Questions and doubts spun around her head like the Harpies, shredding her self-control and piercing the armor she had so carefully erected. Did that woman have a boyfriend? Was he watching as a madman tormented the woman he loved? Did she have children?

Were _they_ watching?

The urge to retch clawing its way up her throat, she paused, falling against the side of a darkened building as she fought to regain her composure. Panic rattled inside her head like a caged animal, growing more violent as the minutes ticked by and each location she searched proved as fruitless as the last. Exhaustion and dehydration clouding her mind, she could sense her fear trying to yank her feet endlessly forward, grappling with the realization that left cold sweat on her brow.

_She had no idea where he was_.

Such thoughts joined the adrenaline in fueling her wild goose chase.

Pushing away from the building, she started down the avenue once more, the pinpricks of light that marked one of her old haunts visible on the corner some blocks down.

It would be the eleventh of such establishments she had tried.

Leave it to him to find the irony in launching her onto the streets, directionless and clueless, left to search bar after bar for him exactly as he had had to search for her. One time it had taken him nearly five hours, she remembered hazily, and most nights he never found her at all.

Her mental tally edging towards six and a half, she had to admit he was better at this game than she was.

Of course, there was no guarantee whatsoever that this even _was_ the game. For all she knew, she was wrong in her assumption, and he had taken his hostage to some common abandoned warehouse, fully intending to torture the poor woman as Anna combed the streets all night in vain. If that was the case, she could only hope – and it was a slim hope, given the days it had taken the last time – that the Bat could find his location before his captive's borrowed time was up. If her theory proved incorrect and the Bat was unsuccessful, this would repeat, night after night, for as long as it took her mind to shatter.

He had always possessed a sardonic sense of humor, one that had only fermented into something much more terrifying in her absence.

Except this time, she wasn't laughing with him.

Fingering the blade in her pocket and wondering why she had not yet been attacked, she continued towards the hulking brick figure of _The River Lounge_, praying to find the one she sought beyond its familiar double doors.

--

She needed a drink. No, not just a drink, three shots of the best vodka she could buy.

On second thought, leave the bottle.

Anything to halt the panic swelling exponentially within her chest, running her heart in double-time as the blood pounded mercilessly within her ears.

Every bar she could think of had seen her worried visage at least once that night, gaze frantically scrutinizing the dizzying array of tables, spirits, and patrons, the last of which eyed her suspiciously in return. No sign of the Joker and his trademark suit, not a clown mask to be seen in some eighty square blocks of city.

Her hypothesis, it seemed, had indeed been dead wrong.

As she held her head in her hands, the rays of morning splashing across her back, she wondered if he was having a good old goddamned laugh at her expense. Resentment searing a tiny hole in the overwhelming arena of terror that threatened to crush her, she hoped he died from asphyxiation.

Or choked on his tongue.

The stone of the park bench chilled her backside, overcoat splayed haphazardly around her, dew seeping into her sneakers. Through her fingers she glimpsed the chaotic collection of black tables and chairs beneath the soaring oak trees, the stomping grounds of many a weary citizen out on their lunch break. As it was, a smattering of pigeons moved between the interlocking legs, waiting for the morning joggers to pass by with their breakfasts and pestering the few people who had already arrived to sit. Her thankless entry level desk job had been right around the corner, and she had fed the rats with wings once upon a time too.

What had possessed her to come here, she couldn't say, both desperation and fright guiding her recklessly to places which had held _any_ importance to their former life whatsoever.

Anna had already passed the Italian restaurant they would frequent when they had the extra money, its closed drapes and darkened interiors so different than the liveliness of her memories. The fountain in Bullwick Square had been next, where she had occasionally convinced him to run through with her on particularly scorching summer days, begging for a smile from his normally stern countenance. Locations of incidental importance, meant more to allow her to feel as if she were actually _doing _something, instead of running meaninglessly while the clock ticked down.

But this park, she reflected, was different.

Letting her chin rest in the palm of her hand, she doubled up over her knees, staring at one group of tables in particular. She wasn't sure if it was the exhaustion or her own frayed nerves, but the memory returned more vividly than she would have hoped.

_It was the last ten minutes of her lunch break, and she nursed a cup of coffee in one hand, holding the book open with the other. An exquisite day for Gotham, the sun filtering through the foliage to kiss the words in front of her. _

_A shadow, suddenly blocking that sunlight. _

_Her gaze drifts upwards, alighting upon the handsome face above her. The gentle angles of his cheeks are arranged in what she thinks is supposed to be a pleasant grin, but he is obviously not a man used to the expression. He holds himself awkwardly, shyly, and can't be more than twenty-one years old._

"_Hi … are you using this?" He points to the chair across from her, one of the few left open. _

"_No, feel free to take it." She's surprised when instead of pulling the chair to another table, he sits down at hers. _

_He shrugs, brown eyes warm in the sunlight. "Hope you don't mind?" _

_She shakes her head, going back to her book. He seems to have other plans, however. _

"_So you're reading _Crime and Punishment_." His voice is smooth to her ears as he gestures to the cover. "We read that in a class last year – one of my favorites." _

_She appraises him again, noting that the timidity detracted nothing from his features; rather, it softened his face and the threat of a frown. _"_Really? I find that while he deals with guilt well, it's a little…. Well, too depressing. I'm into more action and romance, I guess." _

_He opens his mouth to reply, when her watch alarm beeps – her break is almost over. Back to data entry it is. _

"_I'm sorry… I really need to get going. Got to get back to the daily grind, you know how it is." She smiles gently, noting the frown that tugs at the corners of his lips. _

_Nodding in understanding, he extends his hand. "I'm Jack, by the way." _

"_Anna – pleased to meet you." His hand is warm, stronger than she would have thought. "Maybe I'll see you around sometime." _

"_Yeah, we can only hope." _

And she had.

Day after day for the next two weeks, he had been sitting at the same tiny gathering of tables during her lunch break, equipped with a book or a cup of coffee, twiddling his thumbs and surreptitiously searching for her presence. If something didn't seem quite right, she ignored it, excusing his obsessive tendencies for boredom, the way emotion never quite met his eyes for reserve. Currently single, she couldn't resist chatting with an attractive guy, and he seemed well-read, ambitious, interested in the world and in accounting, primarily, to boot. Kind enough, even if he was a bit solemn and slow to smile. Overall, he was nothing approaching her usual easygoing type.

And that's why she surprised even herself when she agreed to a coffee with him, then a lunch, and a dinner, and the rest of the hallmarks that lay on the slippery slope of a romance.

Sitting at one of those black tables, she never would have dreamed the stranger across from her would become both her husband and the scourge of Gotham in less than a decade. After all, he seemed almost normal until they moved in together and she began to gamble…

Until they moved in together.

She shot upright, the fog of exhaustion at least temporarily cleared from her head. The one place she had assumed he would never willingly return to, so far out of time and mind as to not even register as an option. And yet, the more she thought about it, the more appropriate it seemed.

He had always been more concerned with endings than beginnings, unlike her.

And that was why she was in the park and he was in the old apartment.

--

She turned onto Samson Street, the stench of the sewers threatening to overtake her.

Gray apartment buildings rose sixty floors to either side, floors like stacked ice cube trays hundreds of meters into the air. They blockaded the sun from reaching the cracked pavement; the street seemingly plunged into never-ending shadow, no matter the time of day. Ironically enough, these buildings were condemned and barren, the asbestos in the walls and ceiling forming too major of a health problem for Gotham to ignore. She could still recall the eviction riots, as people who had no where else to go fought to keep their contaminated, cancerous homes.

That was one of the two times she had counted them lucky to have the apartment they did. The other was when she discovered that the woman in the apartment across from theirs could make amazing stuffed grape leaves.

Their once upon a time building was tucked into a niche at the end of the avenue, bordered on two sides by the asbestos towers, and on another by some defunct corporation headquarters. Only twelve floors high, she couldn't ever remember seeing the sun from her window.

As she neared, Anna could perceive only a single car parked out front, meaning that they had probably evicted the tenants and closed the building like the others. Some of the windows were boarded up, others chipped and peeled beyond recognition.

Asbestos, fire, infestations – the Narrows was notorious for its deplorable living conditions.

Only meters from the front door, Anna resisted the urge to crane her neck and search for their tenth floor flat, keeping her eyes adhered to the double glass doors in front of her.

Panic slashed at the inside of her brain, demanding to be released.

_Just keep walking_. Her feet traced across the white concrete of the entrance. _Think of the woman, his hostage. You owe this to her, it should be you upstairs_.

What if he's not there?

_Of course he's there_.

And if he's not? What time is it? She fought the urge to glance at her watch, pulling her coat tighter around her form, a habit she had developed long ago.

Pausing, her reflection stared back at her from the glass of the door, illuminated with the weak light of early morning. She stared herself in the eye, steeling herself, before reaching out and grabbing the metal handle. It gave easily and allowed her into the small antechamber before the second set of doors, the first barrier passed. Her hand reached for the second set of handles.

It was locked.

You're making a mistake, you're making _another_ mistake. He's not up there.

_Just calm down. He's up there. And if he's not, then he's not and we look elsewhere. _

Feeling foolish but unwilling to leave without a try, she walked to the wall, the list of names and intercom IDs still posted. Her fingers mechanically punching in the familiar numbers, she spared a glance down the list, noting the faded names still scrawled beside her apartment number. How many times in a drunken stupor had she forgotten the presence of her key, and searched blearily for the code on that very list? And how many times had he wearily buzzed her in, the clock in the lobby showing all hours of the night? She wasn't exactly sure, but she would _bet _it was dizzingly high. Some things never changed.

She pressed the intercom, her voice painfully dry, scraping like sand paper against the walls of her throat. "It's Anna."

It buzzed as the door unlocked.

_He is here_.

--

A/N: Next chapter... she meets the Joker.

_**Please review!! They definitely make me write faster! **_


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: All of you have been MORE than wonderful in reviewing, thank you to each and every one of you. I would like to thank my anonymous reviewers here too: b2, JCL, and Trini Li. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Anna. **

**Enjoy! **

The elevators had been shut off, chrome doors remaining stubbornly closed.

Anna clung tightly to the clammy metal banister, knife clutched defensively in the other trembling fist. It was doubtful that he'd have any men lying in wait, but with the spotty lighting leaving great pools of shadow on every landing, she honestly could not afford to take the risk. The knife probably wouldn't help much in that case – even she could admit she was dreadful with a switchblade – but it was reassuring all the same.

The third floor landing came and went, her exhausted legs already protesting at the added strain. Not in the best of shape to begin with, Anna had no idea how much more her body could take. Her arms were already like leaden rods, rippling with fear but leached of their strength.

Definitely not the condition in which she would have chosen to face him.

Fourth floor now, the familiar obscene graffiti covering the sign. Her head pounding, she could hear her words from some long ago shouting match as he dragged her up the stairs, lingering like specters on the landing.

"_Hell, at least I know what _I _am – I'm a lousy, good for nothing drunk. But you… You! You are a wolf in sheep's clothing. Tell me, does wearing that suit make you feel _normal? _Is that why you never just let go? Because I of all people know that normal is the _last_ thing you are." _

Oh he hadn't liked that. Not… one… bit. The murderous glint in his dark eyes had remained, even as he stiffened and continued silently up the steps, hands twitching near his pockets. If she remembered correctly, she had drunkenly flung every insulting observation she could think of in his direction, trying to see how far he would bend before breaking.

The night he finally cracked, she would wish she had kept her mouth shut.

Sixth floor, ribbons of pain beginning to entwine around her calves. They grew tighter as the seventh landing arrived and left without incident, the eighth approaching menacingly as she thought of what waited two floors above. Her sneakers dully thudded against the metal stairs, climbing what she figured must have been the stairway to purgatory.

Setting foot on the ninth floor landing, she could still envision the wrath marring his features as he held her friend Sabrina's husband over the rail, accusing him of having an affair with his wife. Ironically, there was nothing going on between her and Tyler, he had only playfully asked for a kiss beneath the mistletoe one Christmas, but Jack got these funny ideas sometimes… and once they had taken root in his mind, there was no convincing him otherwise.

It hadn't seemed to bother him that he had nearly killed a man over a single joke.

Entering the murky gloom of the tenth floor landing, she thrust such side-thoughts from her mind, noticing detachedly that the harsh rasping in her ears was her own. She leaned into the peeling beige door, slipping through to the diffuse corridor as noiselessly as she was able.

Her heart was in her throat as the familiar diamond pattern of the dusty carpet crawled beneath her feet, knife brandished for show in front of her.

_1001, 1002, 1003_… the regularly spaced doors seemed to mock her, interiors silent and forgotten. Every third light had been left on, plunging sections of the hallway into darkness, each realm of brightness embodying a small hope that was quickly dashed in the span of a few steps.

_1005, 1006, 1007_…

She held her breath.

_1008. _

Gripping the smooth knob, she turned it slightly, fear flooding her at the realization that it was unlocked. The blade brought closer to her body, she stifled her harsh gasps, preparing to enter without warning as instinct demanded.

In one smooth motion, she opened the door and stole inside.

Nothing happened.

No rain of bullets, no cackling laughter, not the faintest trace of movement inside the tiny flat. The only light came from the window on the opposite wall, a vague sort of illumination imbuing the otherwise pitch-black apartment with a hollow twilight. It hovered over grimy floors and bare walls, barely penetrating the darkened hallway leading further into the complex.

This wasn't going to be good; she could feel it in her bones.

Drawing strength from the presence of the knife, she crept further into the empty room, eyes roving over every surface. Thankful she had worn sneakers, she padded softly into the hallway, keeping her back to the unbroken wall and monitoring both directions. Every doorway was familiar to her – the dim bathroom, devoid of life. The closet next to it, door firmly closed. Inching along the wall, she could just make out the entrance of the bedroom, door slightly ajar.

The faint sound of muffled whimpering.

Anna closed her eyes in defeat, dread pooling in her stomach. Nothing to do now but keep moving as long as possible.

Swiftly stepping to the other side of the hallway, she established her bearings and continued to edge towards the bedroom, muscles running on sheer adrenaline. Switchblade in hand, she peered through the half-open door, a jolt of surprise coursing through her at the sight that met her eyes.

The bed was pushed into its usual position against the far wall, the familiar wooden headboard marking it as theirs. A dresser was against the front – her view was not perfect – and a lamp of some sort lay on its side in the corner. A writhing, sobbing mass lay on the stripped mattress, about the size of a young woman, but it was hard to tell given the distance.

Swallowing harshly, Anna quickly slid inside the door, her back to the bureau and eyes fixed on the closets against the right wall. Still no sign of movement met her stare, except for the figure on the bed, who began to squirm enthusiastically at the sight of her. Gaze darting between the closets and the door, she was thankful for the faint light that drifted from the living room.

Her legs brushing the side of the mattress, she spared a glance at the terrified, tear-soaked face of the hostage, silently apologizing for her involvement. Her neck and shoulders were littered with the thin red lines of his boredom, one eye blackened and her nose viciously bloodied. Anna smiled reassuringly, a pang of sorrow piercing her heart at the thought that it might be the last friendly face this woman would ever see. At least the dark concealed her scars.

Eyes fixed on the closets, she leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a low murmur. "You're going to be ok. Shhh, shhh, don't panic now."

Searching for the bindings around the poor woman's feet, she found only the grooved sensation of two hardware store plastic ties. She slipped the edge of the knife under one of the thin bonds, sawing roughly into the plastic, a part of her knowing it wouldn't be enough.

The woman seemed to sense her hesitation, and began to thrash in instinctive fear. "Shhh now, stop kicking. I'm going to get you out of here, trust me." One tie snapped beneath her ministrations, the sound echoing oddly in the room.

Fingers clumsy from exhaustion, she nicked her own flesh with the knife, a hot trickle of blood snaking its way down her thumb. Ignoring the pain, she hunted for the other tie that had slipped from her grasp, blood-slick fingertips unable to keep hold as the woman whipped violently.

"Listen – you have to…"

Fear rising within her, she ceased her guard of the door and closets, turning her gaze towards the hostage and frantically searching for the tie.

"…. You have to _calm down_, or I can't help you."

Anna knew she had made a mistake as soon as the woman started to scream.

Of course, the kiss of the blade against her throat didn't help either.

The cool edge of the switchblade contrasted surreally with the warmth of his chest and legs, body pressed flush against her hunched form. A sloshing, unnatural sound filled her ears as he gleefully sucked on the inside of his cheeks, sharp bursts of hilarity slipping through his jagged lips.

"Well, _well_…. What have we ah, got _here?"_

A slight shiver tore down her spine, skin prickling as if she had been doused in freezing water. Struggling to remain in control, she gripped the knife tighter, readying herself to use it before she was relieved of its company. Her brain worked furiously – a slash to the arm that held its twin at her throat should do. On three.

One, two –

His other hand expertly reached around her to grasp her wrist, squeezing so tightly she could have sworn the bones were grating together. Hand quickly going numb, she dropped the knife onto the mattress, suddenly aware of the chin perched on her shoulder.

It was a distorted embrace, a sick tableau as they leaned together over the side of the mattress.

A shrill cackle, his tenor rising and falling in a sing-song tone. "Ah, ah, ah, _darling. _Can't have you ha, using your sharp _fa-cul-ties _to end our little game, now can I? Now that you're… _home_, can't have you leaving me so soon." His thumb absentmindedly stroked the inside of her bruising wrist, even as he pressed the edge of the blade further into the delicate skin of her neck. The slightest further ounce of pressure and it would draw blood.

Preoccupied by the knife, Anna hadn't even noticed the four masked men now standing to either side of the bed. The thrashing of the hostage sent her plummeting back into reality.

"Listen." She wet her parched lips, disgust burning the inside of her throat. "You have me now, you can let her go."

He pushed her harshly to the mattress and straightened himself, his laughter sending chills through her frozen legs. Her knife was scooped from the bed and in his pocket before she could blink.

"Oh you're right, darling, I _could_. But where's the fun in tha_t_? No I… I have a _better_ idea. "

The masked man nearest her pulled out a plastic tie, mechanically gathering her wrists and looping the binding around them. Throughout the entire ordeal, all Anna could see was the reflection of the hallway light in the terrified, pleading gaze of his captive, a rage building silently within her chest. Distracting him had always been easier when she couldn't remember it in to the morning; this was about the time she wished she had a bit of that good old liquid courage.

Regular stupidity was going to have to do instead.

"Spit it out then, you freak."

But regular stupidity was a poor protection against pain.

Lights flashed across her vision as he brought the handle of something – a knife probably – against the back of her head. A gasp forced its way from her mouth, her temples throbbing in response and berating her noisily. At least he had forgotten about his hostage for now, directing his ire towards her once more.

A growl next to her ear, plumbing the depths of his range. "What was that? I didn't quite catch what you said." The knife appeared in his hand once more, tracing along the curve of her shoulder.

She couldn't seem to convince her lips to move coherently, stunned by the agony in her skull and the presence of him beside her. Some distant corner of her brain noted that she really wasn't cut out for the whole hero job; so far, she had failed rather miserably. A garbled noise escaped her throat, sandwiched between heaving breaths.

"That's _bet_-ter. A _wife_" – the word came out in a snarl – "should never speak to her _loving _husband like that." A soft pop as he smacked his lips, licentiously running his tongue over their scarred surface. "Especially in the ah, presence of guests."

The blade sliced once at her shoulder before dancing away.

Fingers walking across the same stretch of her shoulder the knife had been worrying, he seemed to curiously switch moods, voice cheerful and fluttering once more. The cheap leather of his gloves pressed playfully into her skin, tracking fingertips of blood like tiny puddles across the pale flesh. The cut barely stung, but his eager prodding jolted her with every pass.

"_So-oo_, how do ya go about keeping a rebelliouswife under control?" He cackled wildly at this, as if it were funniest joke in the world. To him at this point, she realized, it might have been. "You appeal to her _softer _side."

He abruptly kissed her shoulder, smacking his lips against the skin as a child would. Patting the spot with false tenderness, he leapt from the bed, gesturing to the masked men waiting uneasily for his command.

"As I was _saying_, darrrling, you just couldn't keep away from my _animal magnetism_. And now that you're here… we've got a lot of ah, a lot of catching u_p_ to do." The bed shook as one of the clowns hefted the struggling hostage, throwing her over his shoulder and heading for the door, out of Anna's realm of sight. Still stunned, she attempted to twist in that direction, but found her limbs deadeningly unresponsive.

Her blurred gaze jumped instead to him. She couldn't see his body very well, but the white make-up reflected nicely in the dim lighting. A smile stretched across his lips – or was it the scars?

"If you displease me, darling, the results could be… oh rather explosive. So unless ya want that pretty little woman going up... up… up… with the rest of Gotham Central… you should be on your bes_t behavior_."

She hadn't even heard him move before he was beside her.

"Go_t it?" _

The blade was poised over her spinal cord, point prepared to plunge into her back if she answered wrongly. Heart in her mouth, she nodded, sensing in horror that Jack was far, far away inside the Joker's mind.

"Just peachy."

He danced lightly away, heading for the lamp overturned in the corner. Bringing it to the dresser, he reached behind the fake wooden back and plugged the cord into the socket she knew to hide there. A gloved finger switched the uncovered lamp on with a click, flooding the room with light as he turned to face her.

"Now… let's have a look at you. Let's ah have a look at _my_ _wife_."

_**Please review!**_


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: To those who reviewed, thank you, along with my anonymous reviewers! You are all honestly the best! This chapter, you'll get to see the night he slashed himself. I know it's long, but please read and review! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman. **

**Enjoy! **

She blinked rapidly, glimmering spots floating across her vision.

The beginnings of a royal migraine churned within her temples, sudden yellow light lancing the back of her eyes. Forcing them to remain open, she glanced blearily around the room, studiously avoiding his oddly still form. Peculiar shadows stretched across the floor, light flung needlessly upwards and outwards without the usual shade.

Shakily taking a breath, Anna steeled herself and looked instead to her husband.

Her lungs quickly released it.

His body posture – the slight raise of one shoulder, weight back on one leg – seemed to imply a sort of pensiveness, if one ignored the uncanny grin slowly stretching across his features. Usual suit jacket firmly in place, she couldn't help but think what a mockery he had made of his old life in wearing it, a slap in the face to the normality he had hid behind for years. A hint of a tie and vest poked out from beneath, and distantly she could remember picking out a similar one for his Christmas gift one year.

Bound and stunned, and all she could think about was how he had disliked her taste in ties.

It was a shock nonetheless to see the mirror of her own scars on another after so many years, not merely on the television but here, before her. She had seen them only twice – the night they were formed, bloody and jagged, and a few months later in her lawyer's office, not fully healed. Tongue darting out unconsciously to sweep across, she followed its path, a part of her wondering how they would feel beneath her fingertips.

Chalking that last thought up to the escalating concussion, Anna brushed it aside, worry coiling like live wires within her stomach. Taking a chance, she leapt to his eyes.

His gaze contained a smoldering glow, whether from insanity, fury, or something else she could not fathom, boring its way craftily into her mind. She struggled to return it, stare for stare, but found herself instead sinking gradually into his noose, drawn further into the abyss like a traveler within quicksand. Gasping, she tore her eyes away, wondering why he had not said a word as the moments dragged on. Three years and he didn't have _anything _to say?

"Cat… got… your tongue?" Or that's what she would have said, if she could feel hers. As it was, she found if she spoke slowly enough, her brain and lips could work together to produce something like it.

He didn't respond, only waving his hand to dismiss his remaining thugs, smacking his lips as the door slammed shut. Running a hand casually through his oily hair, he took a step forward, enjoying it immensely when she flinched.

"So darling…. have ya missed me? Because I missed you _terribly_. Seems you ah, slun-_k_ off somewhere when I wasn't watching." He tsked her disapprovingly, the bed shaking as he fell nonchalantly beside her. Leaning on his elbow, he supported his head with one fist, a mocking expression of sorrow exaggerated on his features.

"Three years. _Three_. But you…." He reached out to lightly ruffle her hair, chuckling as she tried to rip away. "Haven't. Changed. A. Bi_t_. I don't think I can say the same for _me._"

His jovial calm dissolving into hysterics, Anna was distinctly reminded of watching a dam break.

Unable to control himself, he rolled onto his back, cackling and whooping hysterically, practically holding his sides to contain the sick mirth flowing through his chaotic brain. Anna shied away as much as she could, the monster before her almost completely unrecognizable as the man she had once married.

_If I didn't laugh, I'd cry. _

It flashed through her depleted mind without warning, something she used to say to him when he asked crossly how she could take everything so lightly. Watching him shake in hysterical amusement, she could only marvel at how he had taken it so literally to heart.

His hilarity waning after a few moments, he flipped over to face her once more, still chuckling, half-smile further twisting his already twisted features. It faded quickly and conveniently, replaced by oh so innocent concern. "You look a little pale there, darling. Am I _scaring_ you?" He gestured towards his face, clown greasepaint freshly applied. "Tell me, is it the scars?"

One gloved hand reached for her then, grasping her chin before she could turn away. His thumb lightly traced the wings of her Glasgow smile, no doubt savoring the pain and tears they brought for company. His finger dwarfed each silver line as it made its travels; they were thinner, cleaner cuts compared to his rather jagged lacerations.

A whisper now, his gaze jumping to her own. "Want to know how I got 'em?"

He had her on her back before she could react, a knife leaping to his hand and pressed against her mouth in a flash. Pinning her beneath his body, he giggled, laying his arm across her throat and coming near to crushing her windpipe. "Now, now, darling… you never minded me being on top _before_."

Struggling to breathe as he methodically diminished her air, she couldn't ignore the darkness encroaching on her field of vision, the sound of blood in her ears reaching a painful crescendo. Her body searched wildly for air, chest heaving as she attempted in vain to throw him off, the metal of the knife nicking her lips as she tossed.

Falling away into the blackness, she remembered exactly why she had left him in the first place.

"_For the love of God, lighten up, will you? I was having a gr-great time, and you spoiled my fun." _

_He had dragged her back from the poker bar, laughing and tripping, too drunk to see straight. Carried, jerked her through the door, putting her down as softly as possible on the bed, ignoring her giggling as he pulls the blankets over her. She was only ever happy when away from him. Only ever happy with a beer and a deck of cards, and not even then. _

_He sits with his head in his hands at the end of the bed, hair balled into his fists, knuckles ashen. He had found her with another man. _

_Again. _

_She looks up, swallowing, groggy, the vestiges of laughter still in her throat. "Jen told me… she said you uh… threatened Kyle. Said you were going to stab him. I thought we… we went over this. You can't go threatening to kill my friend's husbands." _

_He doesn't even bother looking up. "You're drunk, Anna. Just… go to sleep." _

_Her brows furrowing, she pushes the blankets off of herself, putting her feet on the floor and slowly making her way towards him. The laughter is gone; her head feels like someone took a jackhammer to her temple. "Don't tell _me _when… when to sleep. _Don't _tell me what to do." _

_She pushes him lightly, hitting his shoulder. "Look at me." He doesn't move. "I said look at me, idiot. Or is it the scars?" _

_His head snaps up, an unreadable emotion in his reddened eyes. His voice is dangerously calm. "This has nothing to do with them, and you know that, Anna. How many times do I… do I have to tell you, I don't care about the scars?" _

"_Lies, lies, that's all I get –"_

_He stands up suddenly, seizing her arms and forcing her to look at him, grip bruising her skin. "You're more beautiful to me than to that bastard I __found__ you with. He probably had to get shitfaced before he'd even loo-k at you." _

"_Let go of me, freak." She rips herself away, barely casting him a scathing glance before his arms encircle her, grabbing her, squeezing her as she struggles to free herself. He picks her up, kicking and screaming, heading for the bed. Legs flailing, arms thrashing, she catches him fiercely in the face, stumbling from his grasp before he can recover and heading for the kitchen. _

_She can hear him coming after her, his footsteps light on the carpeted floors. He is right behind her, outstretched, fingers just missing her as she swings into the kitchen. Without thinking, she makes for the knives, ripping one from its wooden block and whirling to face him. He stops in front of her, surprise, not fear, in his eyes. _

"_You think you can insult me in _my_ home? Haven't I been through enough?" He doesn't say anything, only continues to stare. "Haven't I?" _

"_You're drunk. Put the knife _down_ before you hurt yourself." He seems oddly transfixed by the blade, his eyes greedily taking in the sight of it. _

"_I am _not _drunk. So what, I have a drink now and then. You'd drink too if you looked like this." She raises the knife to his face, his eyes following it zealously. Dimly she notes that he followed it like her own eyes followed a shot glass when she'd been sober too long. _

_She sneers in disgust. "Look at you; you look like you want me to slash you." His tongue darts over his lips, as if excited at the prospect of it. Anna didn't know whether to laugh or to cry, wondering how she ever wound up with him. She honestly thought his awkwardness was attractive? "My god, you really _are_ insane…. Why did I ever marry you? Why did I have to marry the freak?" _

_There was something about that word. She could almost remember him saying something about his father. _

_He suddenly snatches her hand, forcing the knife nearer until it kisses his skin. His voice drops to a growl, one she has never heard from him before. "Go ahead then, slash me. Put a smile on the freak you married." He starts to laugh then, a terrible laugh, one that starts deep in his throat only to shake his shoulders as his body expels its sick cargo. She looks into his eyes, seeing that something had broken within him, a man on the edge of a cliff pushed one step too far. _

_Sighing, she realizes she doesn't want to do this right now. _

_This was just one more of his games. If he wasn't asking her to hurt him, he was provoking her into it. _

_And in a moment, it's over. _

_Letting go of the knife, she backs away, suddenly exhausted. Holding a hand to the pain in her head, she found she didn't want to play anymore, didn't want to play with a broken toy. "You know what, whatever. I need to sleep. Go find your own bed, cause you ain't sleeping in mine." _

_She turns and trudges back down the hallway, leaving him silently standing in the dim light of the kitchen. She doesn't even bother to get changed before falling on the rumpled mattress. _

_Serves him right, the creep, telling her how to live her life. He didn't know half of what she had to go through every day. Maybe she had a drinking problem, perhaps a gambling problem, but it was nothing on him. That man's been screwed up for years, if anyone needed the help, it was him. Hair-trigger temper, constant baiting, a chronic worrier. He was a ticking time bomb of a man. Treated her like a possession, something to collect when he thought time. And what was he talking about, all high and mighty - so what, she was with another guy. Damn masochist, she had no idea how to please him, unable to accept the idea of hurting her husband. So, he was dissatisfied and therefore _she _was dissatisfied… was it any surprise she went drunkenly to others? _

_Why the hell did he want her anyway? _She _wouldn't want her. _

_Random thoughts spin round and round in her head, yet all come back to him. _

_After some minutes, she can hear the door to the bathroom close down the hall. Eerie silence reigns, broken suddenly by the sound of running water traveling to the bedroom. Furious, she stuffs her head beneath a pillow, trying to forget both him and her headache. The way that he had looked at that knife… _

_The bathroom door opens a while later, squeaking, and his padded footsteps are audible in the hall. The door to the bedroom creaks open, and as she whips around with the pillow to tell him to shove off, she stops dead in her tracks. _

_Rivulets of blood gush from the mutilated skin, cascading down the slope of his cheeks to spatter his shirt, the razor still clutched within one scarlet fist. The look in his eyes is positively insane, almost inhuman, blood slipping between his lips to color his teeth crimson when he smiled. _

_And smile, he does. _

"_Anna… why so serious, darling?" The gurgle of blood that follows is like a man drowning. _

_He comes close to kiss her, but she is already out the door and into the hallway. Only later would she realize that the screaming in her ears was hers. _

Soft plumes of light waved lazily in front of her eyelids, a concentration of black moving in the illumination. Her first thought was of the sea on the Jersey shore; underwater grass undulating in the current, the roar of the surf high overhead, drifting calmly and quietly in the deep.

Leaving the darkness behind, she kicked off the sea floor and floated to the surface.

She cracked open her eyes with agonizing sluggishness. The sea grass of her dreamland is only greasy, lanky hair, fluttering back and forth as a face from her nightmares leers over her. The roar of the surf was naught but the throb of blood in her ears.

Her heart sinks, almost begging to be allowed to return to that hellish night. At least she knew that that time, she escaped the apartment in one piece. Now, taking note of the way his head cocked in amusement as she discovered her feet were also tied, she couldn't be so sure it would happen again.

"Well, well, you just passed clean out there, didn't ya?" Her captor and former husband – no longer so much the masochist, her brain noted – lay sprawled out to the side of her, propped up against the headboard as she was. It seemed perfectly planned, mocking those long talks they would have when they were first married, as if she wasn't bound and he wasn't masked in smearing greasepaint.

All part of his agenda to rip down, block by block, the marriage that they both had soured. If there was one thing that had not changed about him, it was his habit of mocking what he did not understand.

"We haven't gotten to talk in some _time_… why don't we play catch-up. So darlin_g_, when you… _left_, where'd you hide?"

"Chicago." She could barely force the name out, the stench of dirt and decay coming from his jacket almost overwhelming her.

"Not with ole mom and ah, _da-d_?" The last word emerged in a snarl.

She shook her head, shoulder starting to ache from the way the board pressed against it.

"You _sure_? Because you _know_, I got the feeling that, well…." He leaned in closer to her, sarcastically dropping his voice as if to share a secret. "That they never really _like_d me very much. They didn't want their lit-tle _girl_ with a… a _guy_ like me, did they?"

Actually, that was an understatement. Fearing the worst, however, she shook her head, noting as his gaze grew hard.

"Come to thin_k _of i_t_… _you _didn't want to be with a… guy like me, did ya?"

No matter that his tone seemed cheerful enough, she could sense the perilous undercurrents running beneath. Seeing his fingers fluttering near the entrance to his pocket, Anna weighed her answer carefully. Say no, and she would be tortured. Say yes, and he would know she was lying, and she would be tortured. Faced with such options, she stayed silent, remained still.

"_No _answer_?_ I think that's the first time you _didn't_ have something to say. Well let me ha, _show_ you something then." He flipped elegantly off the bed, kneeling beside it and searching for something beneath. "You're just going to _love _this, darling."

Apparently finding what he wanted, his face lit up with manic anticipation, the greasepaint making him look almost comical in the eerie light. Hands returned from the dark grotto, a worn and crumpled stack of papers their intended prey.

Holding them up to the light, he sardonically held up one finger and cleared his throat, checking that he had her attention. His voice high and officious, he began to read, eyes moving over the words with the speed born of countless readings.

"'Summons from the Supreme Court of the City of Gotham. Subject… complaint for divorce. The Plaintiff, one _Anna_ _Napier_, does hereby serve one Jack Napier with a suit for divorce on grounds of' – oh this _always _makes me laugh – '_irreconcilable differences_ and ah, _intolerable cruelty_. The Defendant is not to approach the Plaintiff and is hereby served with a _restraining order. _The Defendent is due in court –'"

He paused, looking over to her from where he knelt, gaze searing its way into her soul.

"Sound _familiar_? Want me to go on? _No? _You're a real… _joker, _darling. I mean, intolerable cruelty, hmm?" Papers clutched in one hand, he crawled onto the bed once more, face halting only centimeters from her own. His voice dropped to a growl, lips ghosting over hers in a mockery of affection even as his eyes blazed with fever-bright intensity.

"But don't worry… _Anna_…" The way he breathed her name sent gooseflesh rippling over her skin, though her brain wisely chose not to think why. "You're going to see how _in-toler-ably cruel_… I can be."

This was only the beginning - block by block, he would take her down.

A/N: Wow, sorry that was so long! I hope you enjoyed the flashback, as that's just how I see it possibly happening. And also, she obviously didn't leave him because of how the scars looked... it just proved to be too much in what had already been an unhealthy marriage. My take on his psyche is that everything is now funny and a mockery, because he is mocking his old sort of life, of the time when he lived within rules.

**Please review! **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thank you again to my reviewers! Thanks to my anonymous reviewers too: Tasha, Censes , Jenn! The beginning of this chapter is Batman and Gordon, the second half is Anna musing and a flashback. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman. **

**Enjoy! **

"Gordon."

His grip tightened on the files in surprise, the harsh rasp issuing from the shadows to his left. One would think he would have gotten used to the other man's sudden entrances by now.

Bewilderment quickly under control, he was back to business.

"Evening, or rather, good morning. Any sign of her?" The commissioner couldn't keep the cord of worry from his voice, fingers drumming nervously on the rotten wood of his front porch. The woman had only been in his office a few times, and arguably the police commissioner had larger matters to concern himself with, yet he couldn't help but feel an omnipresent twinge of guilt. He shouldn't have taken her requests for protection so lightly.

The shadows enshrouding his form like a second skin, only the Batman's eyes were visible to his last ally. "No. I've spent the night questioning the filth of this city. Either they won't talk or they don't know anything."

Gordon sighed, running a hand wearily through his graying hair. It was as he expected, but the disappoint still settled like a stone in his chest. "So there's been no word at _all_?"

"Just the one televised two nights ago." The other man's voice was more strained than usual yet no less gruff, the plates of his armor clicking softly as he moved. "Seems he spread a message through the streets, though. Anyone who attacked someone fitting her description would have to face him. Personally."

"So we can only assume she wasn't attacked, and that he has her." Gordon leaned against the wooden railing of his porch, gaze fixed on a quivering puddle just beyond his steps. He shook his head, wishing he had thought to make himself a cup of coffee. "We haven't received any demands either. Something tells me… this isn't meant to end with you busting down the door."

The implications of that statement were something he couldn't afford to think about right then.

Silence returning as he let his words drift into the mist lingering along his darkened street, an inescapable exhaustion throbbed behind his eyes. Not bothering to turn, he held up one of the files, barely flinching as it was snatched from his hand.

"We managed to find out who the hostage is. A Loretta Barker from Lower East Main. A ticket operator, went missing from Gotham Central the night of the train explosions. She was working the rush hour shift, last seen at seven by a construction worker. No sign of her since."

The slight rustle of papers as the file was closed. The specter guardian made no mention of what he had heard, no doubt filing it away. "What did you get on Anna?"

Gordon shrugged, holding up another file for the dark knight's scrutiny. "No prior arrests, no police record. Turns out the surname she gave me was her maiden name, Fischer. At city hall we found a birth certificate and a marriage license. The groom's name on that document turned up no records whatsoever, so I can't even be certain the name is valid." Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he turned to face the shadows. "You?"

The other man tossed him a file. "Hospital records and a divorce petition."

"Divorce papers?" Gordon thumbed through the records, the same name appearing for the groom as he had seen on the marriage license. "We searched the divorce archives, couldn't find anything."

"Not the papers themselves, those are gone. Just a document saying that a divorce was filed and never completed." The harshness of the voice was oddly appropriate for the misty hours of the early morning, Gordon reflected, putting the letter aside and pulling out the collection of hospital documents.

"I'm not going to ask how you got these; we didn't have time for a subpoena."

The voice from the shadows seemed to brush away the comment, gesturing towards the stack of tests and scribbled notes splayed before the commissioner. "A woman by the name of Anna Napier was admitted to the ER at Gotham General four and a half years ago. Severe facial lacerations and critical blood-loss, brought in by a man who identified himself as her husband."

The commissioner paused, one name in particular practically leaping off the page. "There's that name again…."

He could barely make out the looping signature, its translation effectively printed beneath. "Goddamn, is this really _him_? Because whoever this is, it's like he doesn't exist. No driving license, no car registration, no tax information. We don't even have a birth certificate for him."

"He could have had someone destroy the records. Erase all leverage."

Gordon nodded, searching for something, anything, in the messy curves of the signature. This was all the man known as the Joker had left behind. "Then why leave the marriage license?"

"Same reason he destroyed the divorce papers."

Gordon let out a breath. "To prove she's his." The commissioner could only wonder what went on in this man's head, psychopath that he was. "Completely obliterates his identity, but leaves two things – one to prove he owns her, the second to celebrate her pain." The signature belonged to a sick, cruel man, but Gordon didn't need the newest turn of events to tell him that. He resumed flipping through the hospital file, a grimace gradually taking root upon his features.

A growl to his left, the rustling of a cape. "The cause of injury was given as 'mugging,' but it looks like mob work."

"The loan sharks, probably. She fell into debt; they cut her up for it. " Gordon's stare roved over the myriad of treatment notes, wincing at the amount of stitches required. There was something oddly missing, however, something that had perplexed the commissioner since his first glimpse of her. "But why no skin grafts? No reconstructive surgery?"

"Look on the last page."

Gordon quickly flipped to the end, a slow current of pity beginning to edge into his heart as his eyes took in the hospital bill. In her case, reconstructive surgery was considered cosmetic, and not necessary for survival. "No money and no insurance. The hospital did what it had to in order to save her life, and no more."

He closed the file, reflecting bitterly that most of Gotham didn't have that sort of money. "It still doesn't help us find her or the hostage, though."

"No. But I have a feeling that whatever was on that train, never made it out of Gotham Central."

Gordon spun on his heel, confusion furrowing his brows. "Wait, what do you –"

His words reverberated uselessly in the shadows, his only company in the misty early morning.

A sigh escaping his lips, he turned and trudged back into his silent home, praying for at least an hour of the sleep that never came.

He had said he had to go collect some things – "toys and all that _jazz_, darling" – for her stay, checking up on the chaos he continued to stir.

That had been hours ago.

Truthfully, Anna had absolutely no idea how much time had passed, deprived of a clock or any natural means of light. It might have been two hours – perhaps even longer, shrieked the agony in her arms– since the clown had taken his leave of her with one of those childish kisses to her forehead and a backhanded blow to her cheek. The area still faintly smarted, no doubt preparing for the bouquets of black and cobalt that would reside there tomorrow, yet was overtaken by other, more pressing issues.

Tsking and clucking like some demonic mother hen, he had wrenched her from the bed, saying that with her concussion she couldn't be allowed to fall asleep in his absence. While he had a very bizarre point, seeing as how he was responsible for her state, she hadn't slept in over forty-eight hours and that was easier said than done.

To her misfortunate, he had apparently… _provided_ for such an occasion.

Throwing open the doors to the closets, he removed a loop of rope from the arms of one of his henchmen, dragging her cheerfully into the musty interior. Brain a bit fogged over, she had thought he was merely going to bind her further and leave her in there, a prospect which was not entirely unpleasant given the alternatives. But as he sliced the ties binding her wrists and feet, masked men restraining her tightly, she began to think that maybe the bed wasn't so bad after all.

Turning her parallel to the closet, he had snatched one wrist, binding it to the hanger rod as far in front of her as possible. The other was efficiently bound to the rod behind her, stretching her limbs as far as they would permit, coming near to pulling one or both of her shoulders from their sockets.

He had left her then. Unable to kneel, unable to straighten, unable to move.

To make it worse, he had also closed the doors.

Left alone in the darkness, she could hear the scratching of rats in the walls, the scuttling of roaches at the very edge of her hearing no matter how she sought to ignore it. They were staples of life in the city, nothing new, but Anna had to admit she'd never encountered them quite like this. She could have sworn one brushed over her foot, and a reflexive gasp tore its way from her lungs.

No, there was no danger of her sleeping in here.

Her stomach was clenched tightly into a dozen or so knots, the last thing she had eaten being some Easy-Mac and potato chips from a vending machine what seemed like a day and a half ago. If he honestly was returning with supplies, she hoped to God that food was included.

Whatever knot he had used to secure her wrists, it was a proficient one, immune to tugging and any other sort of persuasion. Her fingers were already numb, back creaking from having been bent slightly forward for so long. Overall, she had all the strength in her body of a rag doll, a toy that he could take out when he wanted to play. And his games, she had found out from the first of their marriage, were rarely ever fun for her.

Yet, she had tried, hadn't she?

Before the gambling, before the drinking, she had done her best. It wasn't her fault that she could never quite achieve the intensity he desired, and it certainly wasn't her fault that he had no friends of his own. He had had some acquaintances from work, she remembered, but he seemed to regard them rather dispassionately, more like pawns than actual buddies. And if he wanted to sit at home at night instead of going out with her, that was perfectly fine. She could honestly admit she had no control over those facets of her marriage, and so swept them aside.

What she couldn't sweep aside, however, was the wall into which her mind had just careened.

It had never been her intention to _leave _Gotham, even after their separation. Of course at that time she had still been hoping for a divorce that would never come, determined to clean herself up and patch the remains of her life together into some sort of a whole. She had thought that divorce would be the healthiest option for both of them, rather than allow what remained of their marriage to curdle even further.

The dark swirling in tiny eddies before her eyes, she couldn't help but think of the last time she had seen him in his old life.

_She had been waiting for nearly half an hour, perched at the end of her seat and awkwardly making conversation with her lawyer. Her husband would arrive, the attorney her parents had found reassured her, and it would all be over. As it is, she can only tap her fingers impatiently, the fabric of the woolen sweater beginning to irritate her neck. All she wants to do is have him arrive and sign the papers, so that they both can go before a judge and have this nightmare be over. _

_That's not _all_ she wants, she supposes, but it's all that is possible. _

_The tiny room boasts bookcases on three walls; each novel displaying its title like a general would his badges. Her eyes glance them over, unseeing, attention perennially concentrated on the door. There would be no sweeter sound, she thinks, than the opening of that door. _

_Fifteen more minutes pass, and disappointment chokes her mercilessly. If she had any tears left to shed, she would be sobbing on the wooden table by now. _

_It is nearly an hour past the appointed time when he finally arrives, mechanically throwing open the door and marching inside. The wounds upon his cheeks are still inflamed, kept from fully healing by the ministrations of his ever curious and probing tongue. The rosy length of it is sweeping across his lips as he sits, and Anna can feel the lawyer next to her instinctively recoil from the behavior. It nearly turns her stomach to see such wounds again, and not in a mirror this time, though admittedly she isn't surprised. He looks awful, she notes, with circles like ocean trenches beneath his blood-shot eyes, his hair unkempt and only mostly clean. The suit he wears for the occasion is rumpled, an off-color green tie loosely fixed around his neck. _

_She can't help but think of a noose. _

_Their eyes meet across the table, a jolt passing through her at the sheer deadness of his stare. It's as if he no longer cares any more, she thinks – about himself, about society, about the world. He could sit back and watch it all burn, and she would bet nothing human would flicker within that gaze. _

_But she's spared from traveling down that path by the soft cough of the attorney, beginning the meeting that should have begun long before. He reads her formal complaint for a divorce aloud, eyes glancing up nervously even though Jack hasn't moved. Her husband only sits there, almost catatonic, as the proof of his failure washes over and drowns him in a sea of acid. _

_The lawyer comes to the end of the main document, his normally strong voice a little shaky in the tiny room. "You now know her rights as well as yours. So, any questions? Clarifications?" _

_Jack merely sits there, staring straight into her soul. She squirms beneath his gaze, guilt eating away at the foundations of her mind. Eager to get this over with, she gestures to the attorney, allowing him to continue. _

"_Well in that case…" The attorney clears his throat, pushing several documents and a gleaming pen in the direction of the other man. "These are copies of the divorce papers you already have. As per Gotham's law, all assets are split fifty-fifty, unless some other agreement can be reached. There isn't much, but my client is willing to surrender her ownership of the apartment to you, as well as the refrigerator, two of the kitchen appliances, the bed, and your bureau. Under the law, you will be left with two thousand dollars, and she gets the rest." Jack hadn't so much as looked at the divorce papers. "Do you uh, agree to these terms?" _

_Without warning, he leans forward and grasps one of her wrists, roiling gaze not breaking contact with her own. His fingers sear her skin; despair, fury, and a thousand other emotions swirl within the maelstrom that is his gaze. The catatonic calm is shattered, yet his voice is mockingly light. _

"_I don't want the fridge. Can I ah, have your arm, instead? Or how about a le-g? How about both, and you can have the bureau too." _

"_Jack, this isn't funny." She remains outwardly calm, yet fear is coiling deep within her stomach. "Let go of me, _Jack_, and just sign the damn papers." _

_His tongue slithers from its cavern, wheedling away at the stitches still in his reddened flesh. It tears one easily, and droplets of blood begin to well at the surface. "Your little lawyer just asked me if I agree-d… and it turns. Out. I. Don't." _

_Anna tries to rip her hand away, but his grip holds fast. "Then what do you want?" _

_Silently, his other hand flutters across the table, interlocking within her own. She doesn't know if he realizes his own action, since the fury within his eyes has not diminished. "I just want what is _mine_, Anna. Fifty-fifty. And you are mine." _

_He removes the hand clutching tightly to her wrist, and in a flash the papers are scattered about the floor. Squeezing her hand as if in a promise, his bloodied lips part in a smile and pucker the horrific wounds to either side. She thinks he is about to speak, but he doesn't, merely releases her hand and pushes away from the table. _

_As she watches him walk awkwardly out the door, she realizes that he didn't have to say a word for that promise to be oh so clear. _

Her head snapped upward at the sound of the door closing, animated voices once more filling the apartment. The rustling of bags and a dull thud wafted through the walls to her closet, and she could hear the squeak of his shoes as he sprung cheerily down the hall. His nonsensical humming kept time with his steps.

He certainly was a man of his word.

A/N: Also, I liked this flashback, since I wanted to convey his idea of her as a possession, as well as his degeneration.

**Please review! **


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Wow, you are all honestly the best – your reviews make me happier than anything! Thank you to my anonymous reviewers: Censes, Jenn, Miss Semantics, Tasha, and Nara! I've never gotten more than a hundred reviews before for any story, so this is amazing! Brownie points to you all! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman. **

**Enjoy! **

Through the wood of the closet door, she heard him click the light on.

Still humming, he crossed the room to her convenient holding cell, she could only pray with the intent to release her. He seemed to pause just outside the closet, the shadows of his shoes visible through the tiny gap left between wood and floor. Gaze fixed upon those patches of gloom, Anna struggled to calm her pounding heart.

Without warning, he threw open the door, sending a tremor rocketing through her body.

So much for lowering her pulse.

She expected him to begin speaking immediately, yet he didn't, the slow and almost pensive sloshing as he sucked on the inside of his cheeks the only sound to meet her ears. Resolutely keeping her eyes to the wall, she ignored his probing stare, feeling his gaze slip over the contours of her body. She couldn't help but think that he was gaining some twisted sort of satisfaction from seeing her strung up like a broken marionette, her cords tangled and pulling oddly on her form.

He was the puppeteer, of course, deftly controlling her strings.

Reaching for the hand bound behind her, he neglected to even call for his thugs, having little to fear from her exhausted limbs. Gloves still firmly in place, he lightly ran his fingertips over the reddened digits, savoring the bruised skin of her wrist, dappled with burning welts from the ropes. She could barely feel his touch through her numbness, but preferred it nonetheless, since it beat him cruelly twisting her wrist to see how far it would go.

A knife, flicked suddenly to his other hand, crept beneath the ropes and tore through them savagely. He caught her hand before it could fall limply to her side, his touch more forceful.

"Now, now, just look what you've gone and done to your hand." She couldn't see his face from her position, but she could feel the edge of the blade resting against her pulse. "Just _think_… what a few quick lit-tle cuts could _do_ here…"

She swallowed heavily; no, she definitely did not want to think about that.

He seemed to hear her thoughts, dropping her hand in disgust and turning to her other. "You're no fun at all. Try to ah, live a little, will ya?"

The blade repeated its work, biting into her flesh slightly as he slipped it beneath the bonds. Her first thought was to flee, yet with nothing to hold her up, she collapsed into him, limbs almost useless as they tried to right herself.

Without thinking, he caught her reflexively and stiffened, a flash of annoyance crossing his features – whether at her weakness or his reaction, she couldn't tell. In truth, she was trying to get _away_, but when one's legs and arms are completely numb, it is almost impossible to brush past another person. It was as if time blurred and they were right back to where they started, her hazily collapsing into his arms, leaving him to drag her wearily to the bed. A corner of her mind wondered if they would have their usual argument too.

Yet when he started to move, they didn't go for the bed.

He pulled her roughly towards a folding chair, throwing her carelessly onto it and smiling as she winced in pain. She couldn't remember hearing anyone enter the room, but for all she knew, he had placed it there himself. Rubbing her arms brusquely to restore feeling, Anna waited for him to bind her once more.

Instead, he merely grinned, showcasing the scars he had so diligently created.

"No need to _worry_, darling, about tha_t_…"

The dull thud of footsteps in the hall entered her clouded mind, foretelling the two men who entered the bedroom not a moment later. Bags of all sizes hung from their arms, each as nondescript as the last. Her stomach rumbling as they dropped their cargo at his feet, she could only implore whoever was listening that they contained something edible.

He paid no mind to the thugs' exit, rifling quickly through the bags in search of one in particular. Eyes widening in delight, he transferred to the dresser, the clinking and ringing of metal audible as it hit the surface. Immediately he set to work, turning his back to her and pulling his new 'toys' from the carrier.

Skewers filed to razor-sharp points, fish hooks as long as her fingers, the sort of heavy iron spikes used to anchor tents, hot wax, industrial strength acid, yet more knives, razors, and God knew what else; a menagerie of pain that she didn't want anywhere near her body. She knew it was foolish but couldn't help but ask, watching as he unloaded and liking each new toy less than the last.

"What are you… planning to do?"

He cackled at her question, chuckling in fits and bursts as he transferred a handful of nails and a hammer to the dresser. His tongue slipped out to caress his lips, the sound almost familiar now. "_Plans… _that's a _good_ one. I'm just going to hmm, play a bit. _Ex-peri-ment_. You know what they ah, _say, _darling…. Work har_d_, play har_d_." His voice was light, as if it were some innocent game and not his need to make her hurt as he did. "And I've been working _hard_ lately. Chaos is a stern taskmistress."

His nimble fingers pulled what looked like a key detonator from the bag, and she noted in alarm that it was wired for operation. The brightly colored wires stuck out at odd angles, looping back into the device that could bring down a building, for all she knew. Straightening in the chair, she tried to stop the room from spinning, fear slithering into her brain.

"That's not necessary, Jack, I'm –"

And suddenly the room _was_ spinning, and the bed rose up to meet her.

She hadn't even seen him whirl around, seizing her by the collar of her shirt and throwing her to the bed. A gasp tore from her throat as she fell on her back, having just enough time to see him reach for the detonator and a skewer before he advanced. In a flash he was on her, incalculable rage etched into every line of his face, crimson-streaked teeth bared in a snarl. He was solid, always had been, and his weight pressed uncomfortably into her hips from his position of power across her.

The name had slipped out, but for the life of her she hadn't expected _this. _

His dark eyes glowing dangerously, he bent closer to her, skewer pointed towards her jugular. Growling, he let it push slightly into her neck. "You are never… to say that _name_. Do you understand me?"

She nodded, relieved when the pressure of the skewer subsided at least a bit. Gazing at the fury held within his eyes, she couldn't help but wonder if her using his name returned him at least in part to the past, a place where she had held most of the control. It made him remember her as a wife, as a person, not merely as the victim.

And he couldn't stand that.

_Jack_ couldn't stand that.

And so it was the Joker who straddled her now, the twisted creation of an already twisted mind. But she had glimpsed a flash of her husband, even if it was in anger. At least, she reflected while the detonator danced before her eyes, he was still there in some way.

Snapping back to reality, she barely bothered to struggle, jellied arms pinioned to her sides by his knees. "As it is, we can either _play_…" He unpinned one of her arms, lifting it straight above her and shoving the detonator into her palm. "…. Or you can start the fireworks."

The hellish mixture of metal and plastic was warm to her touch, red light blazing dully. She had absolutely no idea where it was connected, and he didn't move to supply the information, merely scrutinizing her features. It wasn't a choice at all, really – the odds of it being a hospital or train station were too great.

Resignedly placing the contraption back within his hand, Anna expelled a breath heavily, watching as he placed the detonator beside her.

"That's right, darling, you made the _right_ choice." Carelessly removing his jacket, it fluttered to the floor, lying like some crumpled individual in the dust. His kohl-blackened eyes never left hers. "You see, I want this… _willingly_… from you." His eyelids fluttered slightly, the skewer tracing a path down her neck and over her shirt. "I want to make you beg, for it. Like _I_ had to."

He pushed up the cotton of her shirt, drawing the skewer over her stomach, as if searching for the ideal place to plunge. Her muscles tightened reflexively, the sharp point of the spike leaving gouges in her skin with the increasing pressure. The grin twisting his lips filled the whole of her vision, and she endeavored to calm the harsh rasp of her breathing. He was already enjoying it; adding to it wouldn't help.

The tip bit into the flesh of her side, teasing, blood welling to the surface as he slowly drew the piece of skewer in and out. Pain lanced through her and she moved to grasp his gloved hand, yet his clipped command stilled her motion.

"Touch me, and I turn the key for you."

Her hand retracted to her side.

Eyes squeezing shut, Anna could block out the sight of him, but she couldn't ignore his voice. It was almost conversational, hilarity seeping into the undertones, the corner of his tongue darting out to quickly glide along his scars.

"I'm not going to touch your ah… your face, darling. It already looks like something Picasso would have been proud of. And I _like_ Picasso." The skewer danced slowly to the front of her, edging higher up her torso. "The rest of your body could use a b_it_ of _work_, though."

She could feel the blood seeping through her shirt.

Her abdomen was scored with gashes and perfectly round holes, not too deep but burning fiercely all the same. With a swipe of the sharp tip, he put the finishing touch on his masterpiece for now, eyes almost closed and a peculiar hum radiating from his throat.

Anna could feel him against her thigh, smoldering through the fabric of her jeans, but was far from any state to take advantage of the fact. She hadn't _begged_ as he had wished, keeping her mouth determinedly closed and swallowing her own screams for what seemed like ages. This wasn't her thing, and she was almost surprised it was his.

Surprise melded with the agony as he edged off of her, the loss of heat hitting her senses before anything else. He hadn't taken it further, instead swinging his legs off the bed and making for one of the bags. His walk was a tad awkward but he didn't seem to notice, an odd sort of laughter emitting quietly from his lips as he searched through one in particular, the sloshing noise reaching her ears once more.

Pulling a stained and wrinkled blanket from its interior, he tossed it on the floor, turning to face her with a grin. She kept her eyes glued to his face, not wanting to play his little game, fighting off the exhaustion darkening the rims of her vision.

His thumb jerked in the direction of the blanket. "Tha_t_, my darling, is _your_ bed. Or don't you _re-mem-ber?_" Roughly taking hold of her shoulders, he pulled her upwards, his mouth by her ear. "'Go find your own bed, 'cause you ain't sleeping in mine.'"

A push, and the floor was beneath her knees, arms barely catching her from slamming it. She had _almost _deserved that, she figured, her own voice echoing those same words from long ago. The blanket beneath her fingertips reeked of something horrible, but she couldn't deny the urge to collapse from exhaustion then and there. Convinced he wasn't about to kick her, she laid down, her eyes following him as he went to switch off the light.

"In a few hours, you're going to have a… job to do. You're going to help me tonight." He grins in her direction, and she can't believe that he's on his feet, that he likes the pain. "So ah, _rest_ up, darling."

The light clicked off, the gloom rushing in to take its place.

Anna could hear him settle on the bed, hear the mattress creak in all the familiar places beneath him, his breathing slowing with every minute. Time seems to blur, except she's not hearing that sound at her ear, and blood is the only thing to cover her.

Unable to think any longer, she lay on her back and closed her eyes.

A/N: Well, that was fun... next chapter, you'll see what sort of job (hint: it includes "fireworks!") he plans to take her on.

**Please review! **


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed! And thank you to my anonymous reviewers: xxJokersgirlxx, Tasha, Nara, and Jenn! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. **

**Enjoy!**

The elevator slid smoothly downwards, white lights clicking on with his presence.

His walk was brisker than usual, but then again, it was already past sundown and he had places to be, bombs to intercept. Bruce had been reviewing plans with Lucius for a new car – the man had had some astoundingly good ideas – as the Batpod wouldn't survive most of his usual altercations. It was fine for street work, but anything more dangerous and he'd have a broken neck to show for it.

Nevertheless he would have to leave those thoughts for later – on to more pressing matters.

As much as it pained him to do so, Bruce was forced to admit he hadn't been as truthful with Gordon as he would have liked. The last thing he needed was crooked cops swarming the area, only adding to the body count. It was true, he hadn't learned anything about the hostages from the thugs he questioned, but he had managed to acquire the security tapes positioned around the building. No vans in or out, no suspicious or unauthorized trains. A few of the tapes concerning some of the lower tunnels were missing, though no trains were reported leaving that day by the sensors. Whatever the Joker had received, and most likely it was more of the same, it had never left the building.

Inputting a series of codes, he brought up the blueprints of Gotham Central, critical eye scanning the lower tunnels and abandoned storage facilities between them. He was looking for any large, reasonably flat area, preferably beneath one of the building's main support structures. Typing in his request, the program highlighted twenty potential sites on the prints, all fitting his parameters. Assuming the Joker was employing his usual modus operandi, and there were no reasons why he wouldn't at this point, he needed to store and rig those oil drums without the prying eyes of maintenance crew. So that meant an area that had been checked recently, and wouldn't be bothered again for months. Accessing the Department of Transportation database, he called up maintenance logs for the last month, cross-referencing them to the prints on one of the other screens.

Narrowing his eyes, he watched silently as the computer highlighted only two plausible sites, assuming his assumptions were correct. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth with that thought, but left as soon as it came.

It was still rush hour, the terminal crowded with financial executives and harried office drones, parents taking the subway home, friends beginning a night of partying. If the Joker was going to select a blow site, it would possess both the worst casualty yield and the highest possibility of structural failure. Judging by the series of stress points located above and below one of the locations in particular, Bruce figured he had his match.

Pressing a button he could have found while asleep, he heard the smooth hiss of the suit chamber ascending from the floor.

He had a feeling he wouldn't be the only person at the train station tonight.

The thing lying on the floor didn't look much like a woman.

But it groaned all the same when he toed her lightly in the ribs.

Crouching on his haunches, Bruno surveyed the woman the Boss had captured the other night, a guest he hadn't explained or murdered yet. The guys who had been in the room during her capture had all been shot soon after, so he and the rest of the crew were clueless. Glancing at the myriad of bags and bloody skewers on the dresser, a regular torture chamber, it looked like the Boss had played shish kebab with the girl.

She looked goddamn horrible, like something that had been dragged out with the trash and left by the side of the road for a few days. Dark hair hopelessly tangled, shirt sticking with dried blood to her chest, bloody gouges left in her hands from her nails. She needed a good shower, the coppery tang seeping from her clothes nearly choking him. The scars he was used to, on account of the Boss and all, but it was strange to see them on her.

Looked like she would be adding a few more to her collection.

The mask hot on his face, he wiped his forehead quickly, realizing he was going to have to do this the hard way. She looked like she could use a couple bandages and a day's rest, but Bruno couldn't give it to her – when the Boss said up, you were up and had a gun in your hands. Now, he wasn't really one for slapping women around, not like the Boss, but there was a time and place for everything.

Reaching over, he shook her shoulder, slapping her face when she didn't respond immediately.

"Hey lady, we gotta get goin'. Boss says up, and we got work to do tonight."

One eye cracked open, and Bruno hoped she would just bite the bullet and get up, making it easier on both of them. As it was, she needed a bit of help, her eyes unfocused and exhausted as she looped an arm around his shoulders to sit. A couple seconds to breathe and she was standing, swaying and spinning on her feet, leaning into his husky form. The smell damn near caused him to drop her, but they hobbled to the bathroom all the same, her legs mostly able to walk by the time they got there.

"Listen, you got two minutes and then I'm coming in there. Got me?"

He closed the door for her, leaning against the wall outside. The Boss had been staying here and other places around the city, but Bruno didn't know who he had to threaten to get the water working again. It was shut off every now and then as it was.

Hearing the toilet flush and the sink run, he tried to get his mind off the job to come. The boys and he had been taking bets on when the Boss was going to break down and find himself a woman one night, but this one didn't seem like an ordinary screw. No, there was definitely something going on here, and Bruno had a feeling he didn't want to know what.

He'd collect his winnings and keep his mouth shut, thank you.

The door opened and he took hold of her arm, leading her out of the empty apartment and heading through the darkened corridor for the elevator. He wasn't worried she would run – hell, she looked like she was about to fall over – but Bruno felt it proper anyway, just in case the Boss was watching.

Never could tell when he had his eye on you.

Bell dinging its arrival, the chrome slabs parted slowly, admitting them to the musty little box on a string. It was lucky that the Boss had reconnected the elevator, since Bruno wasn't looking forward to trudging down ten flights of stairs with an automaton at his side. She hadn't said a word the entire time, simply propped the wall, eyes closed, breathing heavy and forced. The wounds probably didn't merit a doctor's attention, but she certainly wouldn't be running at full power for awhile.

"Come on, open your eyes. Time to move." His voice was harsher than he actually felt, though she didn't need to know that.

The elevator halted gradually at the lobby, sliding back to reveal the skeleton remains of a once neat little foyer. He pulled her into the urban desolation, thankful that she could finally walk on her own two feet. As much as he didn't want the girl to fall, he had a reputation to keep with the boys, like it or not. Pushing her roughly ahead of him, she leaned weakly into the two sets of doors, moving them only with his help.

The Joker couldn't have picked a better night.

It was pitch black outside, he noticed, the distant glow of downtown Gotham on the other side of the river the only source of light. The boys were waiting by the van, five of them, all wearing the omnipresent clown masks like a second skin. Much to his relief, the Boss was nowhere in sight.

"So hey, where's the –"

The answer to his question literally strolled out of the building behind them, no doubt silently leering from one of the lobby's thousand shadows. The Boss gave no indication he had been watching; purple greatcoat in place, the red-brown flecks on collared shirt poked tellingly from beneath. Three guesses that was hers.

Stepping back as the Joker advanced, Bruno left his charge on her own, not willing to risk his own neck for the lady. The Boss had eyes for no one but her, no one else seeming to matter as he paused inches from her, a grin distorting the scars. And then that _voice_, the one that haunted all of his nightmares.

"You're going to meet a new _friend_ of mine, darling. I want to show off how _bea-u-ti-ful _you really are."

So the Batman, he was definitely involved then. Bruno was grateful he had a few armor piercing rounds in the pocket of his jacket. Fingering them through the thick fabric, he had just enough time to catch the woman as the Joker sent her flying, all traces of merriment absent from his features.

"Put her in the back with you." His growl terse, Bruno nodded enthusiastically, shivers racing along his spine. No, you didn't mess with the Boss. It was the difference between dying now and dying later, and with the Joker, that was all the choice you were going to get.

Watching the Joker enter the front passenger door, Bruno lightly grasped his charge's shoulders and steered her to the van, low whisper meant only for her ears. "Just keep bein' quiet and you'll be ok, you'll be with me." She nodded slightly, and he couldn't tell if she was even anxious, or too exhausted to summon any sort of feeling whatsoever.

For both their sakes, he hoped it was the latter.

Climbing into the back after her, he fell wearily onto the left bench, not even bothering to think of the blood stains and god knew what else probably covering the upholstery. A glance spared for the woman, quiet as always next to him, and he tilted his head against the metal, wheels rumbling below them as they raced towards the bridge. Thank God the Boss wasn't driving, he'd be sick to his stomach by now with all those stops and turns.

He knew the route by heart, could identify the familiar bumps of the bridge and the smooth pavement of downtown Gotham. They were heading for the train station about twelve blocks down, inching through the worst of traffic and screeching down the avenue when they could. If his heart hadn't been hammering with the tension brought by every job, he might just decide to nod off in the oppressing silence.

Something told him that wouldn't be a good idea.

Stopping about a block from Gotham Central, the van pulled into one of the city's countless alleyways, the boys fidgeting nervously in anticipation. Turning in his seat, the Boss swiftly pointed towards four of them and jerked his thumb, the yellow light coming through the windshield falling oddly on his green-tinged hair. Doors slid open and footsteps fell heavily on the concrete, and finally the five were gone from his field of vision.

The driver, a man by the name of Sanford, tapped a rhythm on the steering wheel, whistling to himself behind the cheery mask.

"Hey, Sanford." Bruno leaned further into the light, watching as the other man's head snapped upwards towards the mirror.

"Yeah, what do you want, Bruno?"

Checking that his charge sat as sightless and still as before, he raised his voice a notch. "Did the Boss say why we're here tonight?"

"Just said we're waitin' for the Bat to arrive. Said he'd make it so the Bat couldn't miss us. Other than that, beats me."

Returning to his position against the metal, Bruno could only sigh, "Alright, thanks." The Boss lived off holding all the cards, it would truly spoil his fun to let them in on it every once in awhile. When it came down to it, Bruno figured, the Joker was just a sociopath with a few scars and a bomb; everyone had to know and fear him for any sort of pleasure to be gained.

Pleasure and pain, sadism and masochism, two sides of the same coin. Pretty simple stuff, yet with hellish consequences for both sides.

The silence stretched awkwardly on, Sanford never having resumed his whistling, probably contemplating the abyss of what lay ahead. Normally he'd be doing that himself on jobs like this, but with the Joker, all contemplation was null and void in the long run. Resisting the urge, he instead closed his eyes and crossed his arms, planning on taking at least a rest before the oncoming storm. The van wasn't the most comfortable, but one wouldn't find a deeper silence in all of Gotham.

"I can't believe I used to kiss that freak."

His eyes snapped open.

"I can't believe I used to _like _kissing him."

The first words she had spoken all night, and what strange words they were. Having not moved the entire trip, her shoulders were slightly slumped, hands resting on her thighs. She stared straight ahead, her voice laced with disgust and regret, but her eyes seemed hollow, half-asleep. Dreams and fatigue talking.

"I used to make Jack beg."

The Boss, beg? Now he knows she is off her rocker. The Boss making you beg, sure, but Bruno couldn't imagine the tables being turned. The thought of the Boss bound and pleading was almost enough to make him laugh; it was like watching pigs fly.

"I don't know what he did to you earlier, lady, but I'd stop talkin' like that if I were you. Fastest way to get a bullet between the eyes."

She didn't reply, merely gazing into the ether with a look halfway between lucid and wild. Perhaps she'd taken his advice, but Bruno couldn't help the slightest hint of worry for her and his own skin. Opening his mouth to ask if she was alright, he was stopped by the walkie-talkie crackling to life on the dashboard, the voice unmistakable.

"On the Roosevelt Building. _Now_."

A block over, Gotham Central's glass atrium glowed in the night.

Bruno pushed her forward, the harsh sea winds seventy stories up buffeting his face and whipping her hair into a frenzy. Someone had thought to bring a stationary flashlight, a tiny lantern-like contraption that barely provided a meter of light. The Bat didn't need illumination, he figured, he'd find them with or without it.

The Boss was standing against the guard rail, long-fingered hands splayed upon the concrete, gazing down at his newest target so close yet safely far. It seemed the wind was having a field day with his hair, tossing the greenish locks every which way, almost matching his chaotic mood. The edges of the greatcoat snapped at his knees; lit from behind, he cut an impressive figure.

Who ever said nature didn't have a sense of humor?

"Uh, Boss, I got the lady here!" The gusts didn't exactly warrant shouting, but he didn't want his message lost in transfer. Another push and she was right behind the purple-shrouded outline, shivering as the cool wind battered her chest and exposed skin. Bruno couldn't help but think maybe it would have been a good idea to bring the putrid blanket after all.

The Boss didn't turn around, or indicate that he had heard the message at all. Maybe he hadn't shouted loud enough.

"And uh, Boss, I don't think she's… alright. She's been saying some funny things –"

The first thing he noticed as the Joker whipped around was that he resembled Satan. Satan in a purple greatcoat, with all the fire of Hell in his glittering dark eyes. The light almost seemed to skitter past him in fright, oddly falling on the pale and exaggerated features.

"Said what sort of _things_, hmm?" His voice was relatively quiet, almost lancing through the wind to arrive at his henchman's ears. Bruno watched as the Joker deftly spun the lady to face her warden, before slipping behind her shivering form.

"Sir, uh, well, they didn't make much sense..."

The Joker didn't seem to be listening, his gloved hands crawling slowly down the woman's arms, enveloping her with his body. "Things she _shouldn't_ have said?" The woman was locked rigid in fear, her eyes wide and clouded with confusion, completely at his mercy.

Bruno swallowed, not liking where this was going. "Now that I think about it –"

"Oh, you'll have a long time to think about it…" The Boss had brushed aside the tangled hair from the woman's neck, laying a soft kiss against the unbroken skin. He murmured something that Bruno didn't catch, the tip of his tongue lazily caressing her flesh.

And then Bruno noticed the gun in his hand.

The gun which, in a flash, was also in _her _hand.

The Boss held her finger on the trigger, steady arms holding her in place. She looked as if she was about to collapse at any moment, her panicked eyes gazing right into Bruno's own, apologies raining like tears. Dear god, have mercy, have mercy, and _don't let him shoot_…

She jumped at the sound of the gun. Bruno didn't have time to.

Fastest way to get a bullet between the eyes.

She stood there numbly, the metal burning dully in her hands.

"Oh wasn't that _fun? _See what happens when you _spea_k?"_" _

His cackling was right in her ear, a rolling laughter that shook both their bodies to the core, pounding the dam which restrained her tears. Desperately she sought the numbness that had taken her this far, slipping within its cool waters like amnesia, his amusement barely causing a ripple on the surface. It was he who supplied the force that killed this man, not she. This was on _his _soul, or whatever was left of one in that sepulcher he called a heart.

Releasing his deadly embrace, he straightened behind her, one hand left absentmindedly on her shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed the turn of his head towards the street below, fits of giggles still finding their way from his mouth like bats from a cave. He seemed to have forgotten she was there, seeing only the spray of blood, repeating again and again, and the street below.

Anna took her chance.

Grasping the hand left on her shoulder, she ripped off the glove, her fingers finding the exact spot on his wrist to squeeze. He realized the pressure immediately and tried to rip his hand away, but she held on with both of hers, turning to face him. A snarl tearing from his lips, he reached inside his pocket for a knife, a gun.

Her last chance before she died. Hit or miss.

Calling up the nearest memory on hand, she searched for the commanding tone she had perfected from years of practice. Who knew if it was in her anymore, if he remembered, if it would still possess the same level of control. Something she had _never _wanted to hear again, never wanted to do again.

"_Stop." _

He blinks.

And he pauses.

His eyes leap to hers, almost as surprised as she is, and in their swirling depths she can see both the Joker and Jack, one and the same in everything except for her. For ten long seconds he is back within their old control arrangement and she is where she used to be, on top, both trapped within the game they always played.

And then she could feel it slipping away like the tide through her fingers as he reasserted himself, self-absorption flowing back into place. The Roosevelt building was not their apartment, and he also had a taste for control now.

His fist drew back and she went down, hard.

The wind knocked out of her, cheek throbbing, she screeched in pain as his gloved fingers tangled in her hair. Pulling her upwards, he laughed to see her struggle, thrusting her roughly against the concrete wall.

"Oh ho, that was clever, my darling. Very clever. But what exactly were you ah, _planning_?" He stood flush against her, arms like iron rods preventing any chance of escape. Grinding into her, she couldn't tell what he liked more, the fact that she had taken control or that hundreds of people were about to die only a block away. And it hit her then, that it didn't really matter; he was up here, throbbing against her backside, and they were down there, completely ignorant of the fate one man had designed for them.

She felt sick, and no amount of numbness could deaden that.

Sensing the slight heave of her stomach, he chuckled, pushing into her until she could barely breathe. His hands ran over her arms and over her torso, scratching at the wounds he had created earlier. "I think we could do this forever. You… me… and the Bat. What do you think, darling?"

Her lips were dry, but she expelled the words nonetheless. "I think –"

The masked man at the wall to her left gave out a whoop, turning to her husband.

"Boss, we got the Bat on the building next to us."

A/N: Dun dun dun... I hope you enjoyed this - I tried to keep him in character, and experiment with other viewpoints.

**PLEASE REVIEW! **


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Thank you to ALL of you! And thank you also to my anonymous reviewers: Jenn, Tasha, b2, Helen, Censes and xxJokersgirlxx! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman. **

**Enjoy! **

The winds were in the Batman's favor.

Any moment now, and he would come barreling over the guard rail.

Anna winced as the Joker squeezed her arm in anticipation, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Telling his men to stand down, he honestly resembled a child let loose in a toy store, unsure of which aisle to visit first and wanting to simply buy _everything_. His animated murmuring was lost in her hair, though the few words she was able to catch didn't improve her spirits any.

Having returned his glove to its rightful place, he pulled absentmindedly at the tangles, seemingly unable to decide if he was talking to her or only to himself. "No, no, can't have you looking like trash, not for the Bat. You'll see. W_e'll_ see. He's going to try, oh he'll _try_…" A few giggles, the words tumbling from his lips like debris tossed from the tornadoes ripping through his mind. "But don't you hmm, look so _pret_ty in red… Prettier than on the pavement… The Bat, he won't know what to do… but we will. I do. I _know_."

A tentative voice from behind. "Boss?"

She could practically imagine him rolling his eyes, his lips smacking in annoyance. "What is it?"

"… He's coming."

Turning in time towards the opposite wall, she watched in awe as a shadow broke away from the neighboring rooftop and elegantly soared downward towards them, buoyed on the same winds which tormented her exposed flesh. She had never actually received a chance to see the Batman, having left before he came on the scene, but now that she had she could understand why her husband hadn't been able to resist. Whoever the Batman was, he had almost risen above his own humanity.

No wonder Jack wanted to drag him back down.

The specter landed on the concrete, eyes swiftly assessing the situation before heading to work. The cape and black armor blurred together in the evening gloom, and Anna couldn't help but think how convenient it was that there was only one lantern. The Batman didn't seem to mind, of course; incapacitating the two men nearest to him, he dismantled their guns with amazing precision and advanced closer. A few punches and uppercuts were enough to break bones and send the next two to the ground. The driver from the van, Sanford if she remembered correctly, hung back and lowered his weapon, no doubt seeing the futility of the situation.

Four men out of action and it had only been minutes.

The Joker didn't even seem worried, she noted. Rather, he seemed _excited_.

He slipped his right arm around her waist, hugging her to him as if they were the perfect happy couple they had never been. Their recent exchange forgotten, he seemed entirely engrossed in the Bat, kinetic energy coursing like live wires under his skin. Shaking his finger at the other man, his voice was jovial, head inclined in his direction.

"I was hoping you'd show up tonight, did ya know that? You see, my _wife_," he pulled her half in front of him, running the knife over her hair and chuckling, "her hostess skills haven't really ah, been used that much lately. I wanted to give her the pleasure of some… _quality_ company. Show her off to my ha, _friends_. Isn't she just bea_u_tiful?"

Her husband batted his eyes tauntingly, his voice dropping an octave. "Like that D.A. girl, wouldn'_t_ you say?"

Only a few meters away, Anna watched as one armored glove slowly curled in rage. His voice was much harsher than she expected, tiptoeing the border between protective and malevolent. "Give her to me. Where is the other hostage?"

A series of giggles ripped through her husband, as if he hadn't heard something so funny in ages. "Oh you are always so _eager_, aren't you? Give me this, tell me that. I thin_k_… you need to stop and smell the roses in life._" _A smile cracking across his features, he gave her another squeeze. "Isn't that _right_, darling?"

Her eyes locked on the Batman, she remained still, watching the muscles move into position beneath the armor.

He sprang towards them.

And before Anna could breathe, she was against the guardrail, no, bent _over _the guardrail, one of the Joker's hands tightly knotted in her hair.

"Ah tatata, no closer…. I wonder, would you save _my_ wife too?"

The street whirling dizzily below her, all moving lights and changing shadows, she raised her hands to grip his arm. Her stomach roiled dangerously, heart pounding so violently she swore it damn near broke her ribcage. Heights were one thing that had always managed to terrify her.

If the Batman said anything, she didn't hear it. The minutes stretched ever on.

"But you know, as fun as this is…" He suddenly wrenched her upwards, the street spinning away as fast as it had appeared, catching her nimbly as she stumbled from the rail. Breathless, she didn't even realize who supported her until she glanced up to see his tongue licentiously adoring the scars. "I'm rather ah, _busy_." His eyebrows shot up at the last word, a grin taking root.

"You see, I've got _fireworks_ to watch… and I hmm promised her some fireworks." His arm looped around her once more, the Batman appraising them as one would wild animals. "Wouldn't want to disappoint my wife, now would I?"

Stealing a glance between their faces, the Batman grimaced, some part of him warring with another on the morality of leaving her there. Or at least that's what she figured, judging by the anguish written into the lines of his body.

Seemingly making up his mind, she watched him run for the northeast corner of the Roosevelt Building, a part of her sinking in frustration. Hundreds of people outweighed a single individual, but it didn't staunch the hope from bleeding out of her.

"Oh and if you're going to ah spoil our show, you're going to have to be _quick_!" The Joker cackled, his chest heaving with the mirth flowing through his veins, arms tightening around her. Swiveling as much as she could, the Batman was nothing but a shadow soaring towards the atrium, leaving her with the man she once considered her husband.

The rooftop receded into silence, broken only by his fitful laughing.

His chest expanded and contracted as he pulled in more air, heat pouring from his body to blanket her own, a personal furnace straight from Hell. Crushed against him as she was, she could definitely feel him through the fabric of his trousers, as sick as they came. She shivered, and not from the wind.

Running his hand absentmindedly along her arm, he looked down at her, hilarity still dancing in his eyes. "He'll be back some other time, and all the _freaks _can be ha, together again. And, darling, I wouldn't have droppe_d_ ya, he would have just gone right over too… and you _both_ would die. Where would I be then? All alone and _bored_? " He seemed to think on it, his brow furrowing. "No… no. Definitely not."

She wasn't exactly sure he knew what he was saying, though she wasn't about to ask.

"Bu_t_ now that we're _alone_…." Sighing exaggeratedly, he suddenly released her to dig around in the pockets of his coat, almost looking as if he couldn't find his keys. "You have a… _job_ to do."

Nodding slightly as his fingers found their prey, he pulled out a cell phone and a folded sheet of paper, something ridiculously mundane emerging from the tent of horrors. There was a label on the phone, some sort of official seal, but she couldn't identify what it was. His voice was the usual high falsetto, as if he were explaining to a child how to tie their shoe.

"Now, I'm going to dial _this_ number right here, and you're going to read what's written on this paper here. Word for word. If you say_ anything _else… you'll wish you had never opene-_d _your mouth. And for his sake," he jerked his thumb towards Sanford, "make it sound convincing. Understan-d?"

Wariness plain on her face, she nodded, struggling to ignore the ache blooming in her temples. This was going to be one hell of a long night, and she had to be center stage.

The keypad of the clunky contraption entering the light from the lantern, he deftly punched in the numbers, shoving it to her ear and unfolding the message. As the phone rang on the other end, she scanned the note, her eyes widening in shock and more than a little incredulity. He had to be joking, there was no way –

"Gotham Central Terminal."

Her breath catching, she quickly recovered, determinedly avoiding his gaze. "This is Amelia St. John of north block maintenance. I'm currently heading up from –" she held the paper closer "– Tunnel 46A, lower level. The Batman is planting a _bomb_ in 47B."

"A bomb?" Confusion entered the previously apathetic male voice. "The Batman?"

Convincing herself it was just acting, she kept up the charade. "_Yes_, a bomb, I'm telling you, I was just working down there but I got away. He said he was only after the executives on the financial district train traveling above, that he wanted to tackle the corruption of the financial world. But, I've worked in the tunnels for years, and that thing is right beneath the main support center. It'll blow away the whole terminal, not just the train. _You have to get everybody out of there_."

"But there are trains coming in –"

"Dear god, are you insane? Just get everybody out!" That part hadn't been on the paper, but this was no longer acting; the bomb was very, very real, no matter who put it there.

In the background, she could hear the clicking of buttons, the faint wail of a siren ringing through the complex. Shouts and screams followed, picked up by the speakers of the phone, transported a block over and nearly seventy stories up to the ears of their maestro. The Joker closed his eyes in bliss, savoring the prelude to his fireworks, before snatching the phone from her hand.

His thumb brought the call, and the screams, to an end.

"You, come here." Sanford hesitantly obliged, surprised when the phone was thrust roughly into his hands. "I want you to ah destroy this. Go wait in the van, you'll find another cell phone on the dash. Pretend to be someone _down_ there and call all the news networks." The thug nodded, clown mask eerily joyful given the circumstances, and passed the unconscious bodies of his associates on his way to the roof exit.

If only she could be so lucky as to follow.

Rolling his shoulders, her husband rubbed his hands in glee, unable to resist returning to the guard rail once more with her. An endless stream of people were already flooding the avenues around Gotham Central, recklessly fleeing the danger lurking within the tunnels under their feet. It was like disturbing an ant hill, she thought; sweep away the dirt or pour water on the mound and they _all _came scrambling out.

Except, of course, ants didn't scream.

The constant shrieking and keening of sirens were fierce competition for the wind, cars swerving and crashing to avoid the onrush of people, spotlights flickering on across the city. Panic erupted in Technicolor for four square blocks, then nine, creating a horrific domino effect as the deaths no doubt piled up. Swarms of people were still leaving the terminal, the urgency escalating in their movements, blocking the doorways with bodies as thousands fought to escape.

Open-mouthed, Anna couldn't even think; there was nothing but the chaos below her and enveloping heat behind her.

A whisper at her ear, lips just brushing her skin.

"Just think of all the people being hmm, trample_-d_ to death. They'll _kill_ … each other just to save _themselves_. And all because of the Ba_t_man."

"No one's going to believe that." It came out as nothing more than a murmur, her mind transfixed in horror by what was happening.

"No? _No?_" He chuckled lightly, whispering smooth poison into her mind. "Why shouldn't they? He's down _there_, isn't he? He's already let _five_ people die in pursuing little old me, and another five, with Dent. As far as _they _know…" He lowered his lids, gazing at her through his lashes. "He's a regular ah… _maniac_ by this point. When people already _hate_ you, it doesn't take much to push. It. Even. Further."

Mouth opening to retort, she held her breath as the world came tumbling down.

The entire building, elegant marble and ornate façade, seemed to _shift_, rows of columns cracking as the weight was rearranged from the inside. The central supports snapped and came out of alignment, causing the main building to bulge outwards for one long second, before caving in upon itself with one of the loudest explosions she had ever heard. People caught in the doorways screamed and screamed, before being cut off sharply by tons of falling marble. The windows were blown out by the force, assaulting her eardrums and anyone too close at the time. The glass atrium shattered as the structure continued to fall, raining glass and debris upon those not quick enough to escape the surrounding area, great plumes of dust borne upwards and outwards by the wind.

Fire licked at the rubble, quickly growing into an inferno fit for Hell itself.

And throughout it all, he laughed.

Jack, the Joker, the Devil himself, laughed.

Laughed and encircled her even tighter, jumping up and down, tossing her this way and that, shuddering in excitement and the rush that came from crushing people's lives. Coughing as the dust cloud rolled their way, she struggled to disentangle herself, unable to get the image of the building collapsing upon everyone inside out of her mind. She can't breathe from the dust; her wounds have opened again from all the movement, blood running down her torso, her knees failing beneath her.

She wants to ask him _why_. Why _everything_?

As it is, she only sees his serpentine grin before the lights go out.

_Her eyes open slowly. _

_For a moment she has no idea where she is, there is nothing but a sea of white and vague haze of fumes drifting about her head. She is lying down on a lumpy mattress, a series of beeps emitting from God knows where, it hurts to try to pinpoint the sound. Her arms feel like lead, but there is an itching sensation at her wrist, almost… like… _

_Tubes. _

_She gasps and attempts to raise her head. _

_A wave of blinding agony sends her back to the pillow. Her face, dear god, it's on fire, it's burning away, it is. She feels like her head has been submerged in boiling oil, her mouth, nose, and eyes radiating scorching surges of pain as the skin is stripped away. Her mouth opens to scream, but she can't make a sound, and suddenly there is a _ripping _sensation on her lips and dear God it hurts – _

"_Anna, Anna, don't do that." _

_A rough hand strokes her own, the low voice battling with the pain for dominance in her head. She follows the phrases like breadcrumbs, leading her from the well of agony swallowing her mind. "I'm here… it's alright… it's going to be ok…"_

_Jack's voice. _

_The hospital. She's in the hospital and Jack is sitting beside her. _

_Holding her breath, she slowly turns her head, muscles sluggishly responding and leaping to fire at the littlest strain. His dirty-blonde hair, just curly enough for her to love running her hands through it, dangles in front of his dark eyes. The gentle angles of his face are tight with worry and regret, and there are dark circles marring his olive skin._

_He smiles weakly, but she can't return it. _

_She tries not to think of being strapped to the metal chair, the burly man delivering a punch to her face to break her nose. She doesn't think of the pain and the way it snapped her head back. Her mind definitely doesn't think of the glint of the knife as he takes it from the table, holding it up to the light for her to see. She doesn't imagine the nicks and cuts it makes over her forehead and below her eyes, the shallow but quick to scar gashes it leaves wherever he wishes. She doesn't even consider the way he slipped it between her lips, swiftly plunging it into her cheeks and efficiently raking it through, how she swallows both her screams and her blood. She doesn't think of him doing the same to the other side, whispering, 'This is from Gambol' as she screams and screams and screams…_

_Everything comes crashing back. _

_He squeezes her hand tightly and whispers that he is there, she snaps back to reality, this new reality. She can tell he wants to touch her face but is afraid, afraid he'll hurt her, afraid to feel the ridges of the stitches and the wounds as he tries to stay to unbroken skin. She is afraid, but she wants – no, she needs, to know. _

_Best to get it all over with. Best to see. _

_Wetting her lips carefully, she can taste the tang of blood, probably smearing it further across the wounds. They must be rather horrible, she would bet, if the unevenness and jagged texture inside her mouth is any indication. But she'll reserve judgment until she sees the truth, and refuses to allow herself to hope, yet hope she does. _

_There is a hand mirror flat on the table behind him, probably for when she awoke. Her fingers twitch towards it and she looks pointedly in its direction over his left shoulder, willing him to get the idea. He's a bright man so he figures it out quickly, and hesitantly reaches for it. _

"_I don't think this is really the ah, the best thing for you right now, Anna. Please, just wait a bit, ok?" _

_She closes her eyes, having none of it. He knows this is a command. _

_Bringing it closer to her face, he tilts it so she can see. _

_A freak stares back at her. _

_If she could move her mouth, she would be screaming as a dread settles into her stomach. The thick black stitches extend inches upwards from the corners of her lips, looking for all the world like train tracks, the skin swollen and jagged beneath them. One nearest her mouth has begun to bleed again, and her lips are smeared messily with crimson, fringes of black hanging limply from her flesh. Rows of stitches mar her forehead, below her eyes, her chin, just under her ear; angry red swathes crisscrossing her visage. Where such gashes are absent, her skin is paler than normal from the blood loss, a pasty, sickly color she has never had before. _

_Her eyes are almost completely blackened from the broken nose, purple so dark it is almost black stretching to just beneath her eyebrows. _

"_It's not so bad, Anna. Really. It's just a lot of ah... bruising and blood, all that'll go away soon." She can hear his voice, but can barely tear her eyes away from the image encased in the mirror. "It won't be so bad; nothing's changed between you and me. I promise you, I don't care – I _won't_ care about the scars." _

_Listening to his promises, Anna can't allow herself to believe, knowing what guys will say when they feel they have to. She got it over with, but as the tears start to prick her eyes, she almost wishes she hadn't. _

_Her eyes close, and he sighs, returning to his seat but still holding tightly to her hand. It is a welcome pressure and right then, she wishes she could thank him. _

_But most of all, she wants to ask him why. Why me? Why this? _

_Why _everything?

A/N: I got an idea while writing, mostly by accident, when I remembered that breaking one's nose (something I had included just for detail before in the first chapter) can give you a double black eye. Combined with the scars and paleness from blood loss... it completely hit me out of the blue... who does she look like?

**PLEASE REVIEW! **


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Thank you also to my anonymous reviewers: Nara, Tasha, xxJokersGirlxx, and Censes! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman. **

**Enjoy! **

Alfred wished Master Wayne would shut that bloody thing off.

The television had been blasting all night, the perennially cheery face of that Sarah whatever her name was framed by black smoke and scorched marble, the news ticker at the bottom of the screen recording the escalating death toll. The butler couldn't believe these vultures, thriving on the pain and destruction for the sake of ratings and "truth;" it was almost _inhuman_.

But, as was his way, he wouldn't say a word about it to Bruce.

Assembling the last of the early breakfast, he lifted the tray and crossed into the austere hallway, following the growing sounds of the television like a beacon. The sun hovered just beyond the horizon, Alfred noted through the expansive windows, its light leeching into the blackness controlling the sky. A half hour more, and Gotham would be filled with its welcome presence. Passing the threshold of the modern lounge, a term he loosely used, he knew who wouldn't notice through his own despair.

The subject in question sat solemnly on the couch, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees, head in hands. Listening to the reporter interview a sobbing family member, Alfred wanted to toss his teapot through the screen, for all the good such grief was doing Bruce. This was the fifth such interview they had shown in six hours, the required human emotion piece before the vultures returned to the Batman conspiracy.

Ah yes, there they went again. Placing the pewter tray on the table, Alfred struggled not to listen.

"Without a doubt, the question on everyone's lips is whether the Batman is responsible for this horrific tragedy." The blonde stood straight in her expensive suit, fire truck and smoking rubble behind her. Another body was lifted from the ruins, the camera greedily locking onto the image, and the fatality ticker in the corner advanced to ninety-six. "He was spotted in the lower tunnels by several witnesses before the bomb exploded, one of whom – an Amelia St. John, member of train maintenance – called Gotham Central's security office and issued an evacuation warning. She is still reported missing, though we talked earlier with George Calendar of Gotham Central security, who received that call. With us we have a witness from the lower tunnels, Matthew Sparks of Bank of America. So, Matthew," the reporter turned towards the middle-aged man, mouse-brown hair stained with soot. "Tell us what you saw."

"I was on the 8:02 Palisades train, track 37. I see a flash of cloak as I'm boarding the train, and it's the Batman, heading for the main concourse from the lower tunnels. Next thing I know, the sirens are going off and everyone's shrieking, pushing to get out of the building." He shook his head, weary and more than a bit annoyed. "That wasn't a coincidence; I'm telling you the Batman put it there. The bastard was fleeing too fast – set it with enough time for him to escape before blowing the rest."

"You think he would honestly do this?"

"Hell yes, I do. The guy's a nutjob in a bat suit, just look how he let Dent turn himself in, and then _killed_ him. He's already killed, what now, five? Ten? A vigilante who takes the law into his own hands is a dangerous thing, a mad dog that should be put down. Blowing up trains to get at Wall Street…." Turning towards the camera, he shook his finger, fury written upon his face. "I hope you're listening, whoever you are, because _you screwed up_. And now, thanks to you, a hundred people are_ dead_!"

The television clicked off, obeying the remote in Alfred's hand.

"Best not to listen to that, Master Wayne." He pushed the tray closer to the younger man, a steaming cup of coffee prominently displayed. "Try a scone and some coffee now; get something in you before you collapse."

And for the first time in six hours, Bruce spoke.

"He's right, Alfred. I did screw up." His hands slowly slid down his face, revealing eyes haunted by a thousand sorrows and latent fears. "I should have known that it was a trick –"

"You couldn't have, he's never done this before –"

"– I was just so _sure _that the hostage was with the bomb. But there was nothing there, Alfred, just more oil drums than I thought possible and enough explosives to bring down the building. I couldn't figure out the mechanism in three minutes, or how it was rigged. I had just enough time to get out…" His fingers absentmindedly ghosted over the shallow shrapnel wounds in his arm and side, tossed from the explosion. "By the time I got up to the main tunnels, the sirens were already going. There wasn't anything I could do."

Alfred shook his head slowly, wishing he could make Bruce see the truth in what he said. He considered Master Wayne a son, the only one he had, and his heart broke to see him so miserable. "Exactly, there was nothing you could do. _Batman_ couldn't have done anything, and the Joker is exploiting that. He realizes that he can't actually drag you down to his level, so he'll do it in the minds of the public instead. This is something you had no control over."

But Bruce wasn't listening to the voice of reason, too enmeshed within his own sorrow. Gaunt face turned towards his butler, Bruce stared with hollow eyes. "Do you want to know what the worst part is, Alfred? I left her with him. She was _right there _and I didn't even save her. He got both her _and _the building."

"It was one versus thousands, Master Wayne. You had no choice."

A tone of disgust entered his charge's voice, twisting his features. "It isn't about that, Alfred. It's just…" He leaned forward, gesturing with his hands as he tried to explain the lethal vine coiling in his brain. "She was asking Batman, asking _me_, to save her; I saw it in her eyes. I saw her fear and the prayers, but I turned away and played the Joker's game. I just _left _her there with that freak…. Dear God, you should have seen her, Alfred. The blood on her shirt… he had been torturing her, and I let him have her. He's probably torturing her now, and it'll be because of me."

A mirthless laugh escaped his lips, broken and disconsolate. "That man on the news was right, Alfred, it _is _my fault – I didn't plant the bomb, but I didn't save those people. I didn't save her either."

Alfred didn't know what else to tell him, it was something that nothing in the world could heal, requiring Bruce to forgive himself for reaching one of his limits and leaving another person to the Joker. The bloody madman didn't know how closely he had hit a nerve, struck a blow that even Batman might not recover from. The butler began to walk away as Bruce slumped and turned further inside himself, his voice echoing down the corridor.

"The building would have come down if you were there or not. And, Master Wayne…having saved this Anna, wouldn't have changed Ms. Dawes' death."

Bruce didn't reply, head in his hands once more.

She needed to steady her nerves.

Pulling futilely at the ropes binding her to the chair, she cast her eyes about the room, looking for anything in a bottle. Anna didn't suppose Jack had any vodka on hand, and even if he did, the thought of her asking him for it was enough to make her want to laugh.

Only she knew she would start to cry.

The scene from the rooftop had been replaying nonstop in her head, projected on the backs of her eyelids by some inner machine she couldn't shut off. It had nearly caused her to bring up the first meal she had received in ages, some stale bread and a bit of cereal, swallowed dutifully in the name of self-preservation as the carnage continued on inside. She had dreamed of it while unconscious, reenacting every minute detail a hundred times, just as immobilized and horrified as the first. Sometimes the dreams were altered slightly and screaming never stopped, continuing on and on until his laughter finally drowned them out.

He had practically done as much as it was.

After one final shout, the voices ceased in the kitchen and the door slammed; he had finished with his orders.

Speak of the devil.

Anna could hear his footsteps in the hallway, a sound that had lately come to foretell nothing but pain and sorrow. The door creaked as he threw it open, stepping grandly inside like a conductor accepting applause for his efforts. Purple of his coat nearly submerged beneath light tan grit, he seemed a little worse for wear but no less joyful, greasepaint hopelessly smeared in what looked like an attempt to remove the dust.

A part of her burned to see him without it.

"So, darling, want to know how we did tonight? We ah, knocked 'em _dead_... all one hundred and ten of them." He chuckled at the horrible joke, his face slowly falling as he took in her clear disgust. "Oh I forgo_t_..." He took hold of her hair and wrenched back her head, whispering into her ear as her breathing grew quicker. "You never liked my sense of humor."

"You never _had _a sense of humor."

It slipped out before she could think.

His grip slackened a bit and she could see him start to think, tongue creeping to the corner of his mouth as if deep in thought. He was mocking her, she knew, but the habit was enough to cause a slight pang in her heart. "Hmm, you could be right, darling. I suppose I had to … get one to make up for _yours_. I'm always ah, _smiling_ thanks to you, why shouldn't I be _laugh_ing?"

She didn't respond to the barb, trying to ignore the smell of dust, sweat, and decay that came from his presence beside her. Underneath the stench of the coat, she could smell what she knew to be _him_, familiar and almost horrifyingly comforting if she thought of him as Jack. He still _was_ Jack, she reminded herself, the same man whose arm would find her in sleep and curl protectively around her, the same face she would see first in the morning and last at night.

Ironic now that after three years this was again true.

But tonight had proved that some of him hadn't changed all that much, she thought, watching as he tired of waiting for an answer and stalked to the dresser. From the time they had moved in together, she had seen his violent tendencies, the rapid mood swings and chronic possessiveness that would often drive him to rage. She had controlled him then, rafted through the turbulent waters of his fury and come out on top, enforced _her _law and he had followed.

This man picking through fish hooks to stab into her flesh… he had listened to her earlier, obeying her as he was drawn into the past. Obeyed her as Jack would have.

She could be assuming too much… but she was willing to bet that a part of him had even wanted it.

Having seen how readily he upended her over the guard rail seventy stories above the street, she knew she couldn't count on her survival. He would enact his revenge and take his amusement, and she would be killed as easily as the poor individuals inside Gotham Central that night.

Dear God… the building _falling_…

Struggling to stop her stomach from roiling once more, she could barely believe the ideas floating around in her head, having thought she had abandoned that game long ago. It was something she never wanted to return to, but she had that night, hadn't she? If it meant the difference between another victim and perhaps escaping, she was almost compelled to try.

Observing as he hummed to himself and shifted through his toys, she couldn't help but return to the memory she had called up earlier.

It was one she could have gone forever without seeing again.

_It would be a year before she was scarred. _

_She draws the knife carefully across his stomach, metal icy to her hand. _

_It was a trick she had learned in college, putting the knives in the freezer to produce a different sort of sensation. Incidentally, even something a few steps above a butter knife tended to feel sharper that way, for better or for worse. Judging by the way he hummed beneath her hand, it suited him just fine. _

_A slight grin creeps on her lips, hidden from his blindfolded eyes. Seeing him happy is enough, it causes a warm rush to course through her, and she is reminded why she does this in the first place, all for him. Her touch is precise and her hand steady, to avoid breaking the skin. A part of her knows that is what he wants, but she can't bring herself to do it, the same way she can't bring herself to use the potato peeler as he had asked last week. _

_Her smile fades, a grimace taking its place. _

_The knife dances over his chest, and she remains in tune with the knife and with his body. Knife play isn't exactly the most interesting thing for her, but he had… _asked _for it so nicely, and she did get to bind him in the bargain. The ropes securing his hands above his head are sturdy; she had had to go to a merchant marine store to learn a new manner of tying one after he had pulled out of the earlier types. This seemed to be doing the trick so far, and he enjoyed it._

_Sliding her leg over him, she hovers over his body, enjoying the position more than she would ever admit aloud. Taking a breath, she brings the knife around his neck, decreasing her pressure for safety reasons; he shifts in protest, a slight moan escaping his lips. But she is in control here, and she won't compromise on this, especially near his jugular. He's damn lucky she's even doing this; it's honestly just to make him happy. _

_The knife trails down to his stomach again, and she finds herself wishing they could go back to one of their earlier activities. He's close now though, she can feel it, so she decides to keep going… and then stop, of course. Usually he loved that, for some reason. _

"_Permission to speak?" He gasps out. _

_She lifts an eyebrow, waiting as if she were deliberating. There wasn't much chance she'd say ever say no. "Speak." _

"_Permission to… to make a request?" _

_Sighing inwardly, she wishes for once she had refused him, not liking where this is going. "Say it, but I demand repayment regardless. Of my choosing." _

_He nods eagerly, dirty blonde locks shaking charmingly. _

"_Stab me." _

_Her hand pauses in its ministrations much to his discomfort, brow furrowed in alarm. She keeps her voice cool and steady, however. "No." _

"_Please, Anna" he gasps again, "I'll say – I'll say I was jumped. Please just… I'm asking you. Just _please_, I want you to do it, Anna. Anywhere you like, I want you to do it…."_

_She knew he was into this sort of thing, but she hadn't heard anything this radical since he wanted her to slam his fingers in the window last summer. That had been turned down too, for obvious reasons. Yet even that wasn't _deadly_. _

"_No." Anna stops and pulls the knife away. "And I did not give you permission to speak again." More than a little annoyed, she gets up and goes to the closet, ignoring his promises and flattery. She should have seen it coming, as it is, she'll let him lay there for a little while to think about it – the closet needed to be cleaned, anyway. _

_Taking out a few of her brightly patterned shirts and laying them on the chair, she smoothes out the wrinkles, his pleas falling on deaf ears. She knows it isn't as bad as he says it is, he likes it anyway, but she knows the secret is just not to do _anything_. That's the worst, and she knows from experience, however much it wasn't her cup of tea. _

_They had switched places once in the beginning, and he was horrible in her position, she remembered. One had to be in tune with their partner and he was far from it, too interested in his own pleasure and completely missing the point. Plus, she really didn't like to be in his position anyway – she didn't have his assured sense of self. Control was interesting and, when done safely, exciting, but she feared that she was more than a little too tame for him. _

_He came when she called, he did what she commanded, but there was always that last mile she refused to go. _

_Jack could never seem to accept that. _

_Her irritation fanned by his pleas, she couldn't help but be cross. Who the hell asks their wife to stab them? Who the hell _wants_ someone to stab them? From medical books she knew it was one of the most painful places a person could be injured, and there he was, begging for it. That went way beyond what she knew was usual, even for most masochists; there was something not quite right about her husband, but she hated when she was confronted with the fact. _

_Anna hates being reminded that she can't please him. _

_Hands balling into fists, she drops the shirts and walks quickly over to him, taking hold of his chin and turning his face towards her. She only needs one word. _

"_Stop_."

Greasy hair tossed in all directions, he faced her with a grin, three fish hooks held in his gloved hands. Clasping them tightly, he shrugged off his coat and savored the pain as they dug into his flesh, and she couldn't explain why the expression on his face sent warm shivers running through her.

Well, she could explain, but she certainly didn't want to.

Whatever he had planned, she knew it was nothing enjoyable, determined that the fishhooks should come no closer. Fighting her own nausea, she decided it was time to act, discontent to be as helpless as the people fleeing Gotham Central and blocking the doors with their own bodies.

She swallowed and wet her lips, slipping back into the tone she used so many times before. Dear God, she knew she was going to fail, but she had to try - she didn't want to be face up and six feet under any time soon. The Joker was invincible, but Jack was Jack.

"Before you come any closer, you will take off those gloves."

They needed to talk, and she needed him to stand still long enough to listen.

A/N: Wow, that flash was so fun to write! I was uncertain of putting it in, but I did anyway. I hope you enjoyed it...

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	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Thank you to all of my reviewers, you are all the best! Also thank you to my anonymous reviewers: Tasha, xxJokersgirlxx, nightingaleraven, and Jenn! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman. **

**Enjoy! **

His eyes narrowed, head cocking to the side as if he were considering the action.

Fingers twitched at the cuff of one dark purple glove, seemingly encompassing the whole of her vision though she kept her eyes on his face. Anna could almost see the gears working in his head, tumblers clicking open and locking shut as he weighed its ramifications. Jack had always been remarkable with probability, she remembered, and could envision people's actions to a degree most wouldn't even contemplate. He didn't necessarily worry himself with the consequences, of course, but he definitely _saw_ them.

A slight shrug of his shoulders, and the glove was off.

The other soon followed, joining its mate on the dresser.

Confidence vaguely reaffirmed, she briefly considered the rope rubbing against her wrists, weighing her odds of getting him to untie her. Not wanting to push her luck, she discarded the idea, just thankful her throat was still intact. The fishhooks were still in his hand, however, so who knew how long that would last.

Her gaze flicked to the offending pieces of metal, the kind used for hundred pound fish.

"Drop them."

He chuckled then, squeezing the hooks tightly and not even flinching when sharp tips pierced his flesh. Bizarrely, the concern she would often feel when he hurt himself, intentional or not, bubbled within her chest, a reaction she thought dead long ago.

"_No_."

Her heart sunk, ace seemingly burning before her eyes. He must have noticed the disappointment flash across her features, because he grinned smugly, advancing towards her. Fluttering his hands to acknowledge that the gloves were removed, as per her request, his voice was light.

"I like to play, you know that. But ya see, the funny thing about _control_ is… when you leave, it loses some of its _effectiveness_. So hmm, just between you and _me_ –" He leaned over, smeared face inches from her own, gazing coyly through a slit in his lashes. "– I found _big_ger fish, to fry."

He dangled the fishhooks before her nose.

"But let's not be too hasty, hmm? You always did have a _way _about you. Used to think some _in-ter-est-ing _things, used to be very…" He cocked his head again, as if searching for the word. "_Spontaneous. _Used to be so… very… good… at surprises."

Straightening, the Joker righted his vest, strong hands sliding elegantly down the silken material. "That's what made you so, humm, worth-while, darling, made you simply delightfulat our little games." Walking behind her in that awkward way of his, his free hand lightly ran over her hair, fingertips surprisingly gentle. "But ah one day, as the story _goes_, you lost that spontaneity, that ah, that _joie de vivre_…" He purred in her ear, elongating the r's as a hand snaked forward to caress her collarbone, the soft smack of his lips resonating in her ear.

This was not good, some rational part of her mind screamed, but the rest would hear nothing of it. His touch was electrifying, warm on skin that lay bruised and battered, fingertips drawing small spirals as they worked their way down. She fought to remain in control of herself, to ignore the sensations running up and down her spine, but his touch resurrected memories long banished, a flush rising to her cheeks. This was _not _happening, and yet… it was.

His breath was hot on her ear, just as it had been on the rooftop.

"And, my darling, you well, you became someone I could not _recognize_…"

"So did you." Her words were nothing but a murmur, wondering how the tables had managed to turn so quickly. He had learned a fair amount of his own tricks in her absence, it seemed.

"You got some really funny, ideas… some really, _awful _ideas." His fingertips brushed against the rise of her breasts, continuing his small circles. This was _not_ how she saw this talk going. Not one bit. Dear god, she had to flip this, had to try again to get back on top, yet it all felt so…

A flash of light on metal.

She yelped as one of the hooks raked across her skin, the other close behind in their race across her collarbone. Tearing her face away, she could not believe she had let her guard down, furious with herself. The blood was scorching, so much hotter than his flesh, slipping below the neckline of her spattered shirt.

Wrath colored his normally sing-song voice, hooks spinning and twisting in his capable hands, his tongue gliding along his lips.

"You got the idea that you weren't _mine_. That you hadn't _been_ mine since I first saw you. You got, the idea, that you could just _leave_… See a guy like me, I like surprises, I like 'em. But that one, _that one,_ oh that I _didn't_ like. And after all I had done for you…"

The hooks paused in their routine and his hands retracted, a soft whisper filling the air as he sliced through the ropes binding her hands. Bringing them forward, she subconsciously rubbed at the burns, his face appearing a moment later before her own. Breath mingling, they locked eyes, she slipping down the rabbit hole to arrive at the pit of rage that formed his core, hot like the sun.

"It's ironic, isn't it? I do _this _for you, and you can't even stand the sight of me. _You _can't stand the sight. Of. _Me._"

Something flickered behind his eyes, a need she couldn't place.

An instant, and the levees broke, the floodwaters released.

Breathing heavily, he cast his eyes wildly about for her hands, seizing them fiercely and bringing them to his face, scraping her nails over the mutilated flesh. Trying to wrench away made him grip even tighter, the scars jagged and bumpy beneath her fingertips, crimson greasepaint smearing over her skin. Breath knocked out of her, she could only think of what she was feeling, a maelstrom of emotions mirrored within his gaze, shared communal memory of excruciating pain and disgust.

Not even sure why, she slowed the frantic pace and shifted closer.

A jolt ran through him as her touch softened, whether out of surprise or something else, she couldn't explain. The sensation of touching the rutted flesh of his cheeks was nothing like she had imagined, crudely done with a razor and home-made stitches, angry and violent by nature. The skin was soft and stretched, warped and stiffer in some places than others, the depth of the valleys constantly changing. More cords of such agony and grief wracked her own visage, but individually they paled in comparison.

Markings. Hers marked the face of a debtor.

And his?

Gently tracing one side and then the other, her husband oddly quiet, coiled like a spring beneath her touch, she couldn't help but wonder. What did his mark? A message, a way to make his point? Or was it some sick affinity between them, some twisted form of ownership and connection? She honestly couldn't say; with Jack, the Joker, and the Devil, nothing was ever so simple.

No, nothing was ever simple.

Her fingers straying from the scars, he didn't move to stop her, slipping easily into his old role once more. Control was a funny thing, and she agreed, it required both of them to play the game, mutual assent for either side to work. He would never break her and she would never best him, though she could spend the rest of her days hoping for some sort of closure.

They were connected, tied together by countless strings, pulling each other in opposite directions and swirling in the infinite pool humanity called time. Swirling and swirling, the string never unraveling, no matter how each tried to escape.

Moving closer, she watched as her fingers were stained with crimson and white, removing the last streaks of war paint to touch the man beneath. Jack relaxed somewhat into her hand, gripping the hooks tighter to compensate for the conflicting emotions no doubt whirring in his head. It was like holding a wolf by the ears, she reflected, she couldn't let go but she couldn't hold on either.

Peering into his eyes, Anna could only wonder if she ever understood him at all.

_Two and a half years before her scarring, and it's four in the morning. _

_He sighs quietly beside her, arm clutching her to his chest, murmuring in his sleep. Anna can't make out the words but wishes him good dreams nonetheless, he could use them. Normally she was the one lying peacefully in slumber and he awake for hours on end, mind whirring and whirring until rest became unattainable. _

_It was impossible for that man to relax, she thinks. _

_He usually reads when he can't sleep, she knows, the books on the floor next to his side of the bed stacked ten high. To look at him, constantly fidgeting, constantly talking, one wouldn't peg him for a reader, but he is. The titles are always changing thanks to the library near his work, but some are old veterans, old friends. _

_Somewhere in there she knows is _Crime and Punishment_, dog-eared and yellowed with time. She has no idea where or when he got it, but he certainly hasn't put it down since then, absorbed by the tale of murder, guilt, and moral dilemmas. She hadn't enjoyed such dark material, but Jack thrived on it. _

_In there is also one of Hawking's texts, she forgets the name, though to be honest she can't understand half of it, even if she pretends to. Normally he skips right to the sections on entropy and singularities, how everything ends in chaos and some other things she accidentally tuned out when he tried to explain. He's incredibly intelligent; he would be more than a nameless accountant if only he would apply himself in the right ways. _

_There are books on engines and on cars, though he's never been beneath one in his life. Some philosophers, notably Thomas Hobbes, figure in among the titles, though why he's reading Hobbes for enjoyment she'll never know. Sometimes she thinks it's because it makes him fall asleep faster, and if that's the case, all the power to him._

_And sometimes the titles worry her, though she never says anything. _

_She's seen enough books on ballistics and demolition stuck under the bed where he thinks she won't look. He's curious, and that's fine, but it isn't exactly the most comforting sentiment in the world to know your husband is learning how to chamber bullets and create crude bombs. Nevertheless it is a dangerous city, and one never knew when such skills would prove useful. _

_Jack was strange, yes, but she doubts he would ever take anything that_ _far. _

_It's odd, Anna thinks, she knows so little and so much about him. She could tell you his favorite meal, his favorite books, how many smiles he has when he decides to show them. What he wishes he could be and what he is thankful he is not, what he thinks is true and what he hopes is false. _

_She knows many things, but ask her about his parents, or his childhood, and she doesn't know. Ask her why he keeps getting fired from his jobs, and she won't tell you the reason she thinks is true, but the one he uses every time. Anna doesn't know why he dislikes people, why he has only her and likes it that way, why he doesn't abide it when she goes out with her friends. _

_Yet ask her why she doesn't care about those things, and she'll tell you it's because of the one smile he flashes when she makes him laugh. The way his eyes look in the sunlight as they're lying in the grass, the things he whispers when no one can hear. _

_It's because of moments like these, his arm tight around her, that she doesn't care at all. _

She slowly retracted her hands, watching as he stepped away.

The anger was seemingly scorched out of him for the time being, though he was no less dangerous, a small trickle of blood oozing from his fist where he had tightened his grip on the hooks. Blood was blood, and the difference between theirs was nigh impossible to discern. As it was, her neck and chest still stung from where the hooks had done their work, the blood dried in thin swathes like ruby tears.

An idea seemingly entering his head, the Joker headed for his coat on the bed, rummaging deftly through his pockets until he had found his prize. Carefully extricating his prey from the dusty material, he turned slowly, a pair of identical knives resting on his palm. Not even bothering to see if she was watching, he held one up, his voice low, face unreadable.

"This was my gift to you. Your birthday."

Her mouth opens in an O of surprise; that wasn't what she was expecting, if anything, she supposed he would have asked which one she wanted to be tortured with. She didn't think he had even remembered its origin, scooping it up the night she was captured. "Yeah, my twenty-sixth. You said it was a specialty piece."

His gaze flickered upward, though returned swiftly to the switchblade in his palm. "I lied."

Anna remained silent, not even able to believe they were having this conversation, much less sure of how to respond.

Her husband didn't seem to mind the silence, merely holding both up this time, the metal glinting in the light of the lamp. "They're exactly the same. _Exactly_. You wouldn't know which one ah, saw more action. Which one sat in a _drawer_ and which one in a pocke-t."

"Do _you_ know?"

He didn't reply, his eyes saying all he needed.

Gordon ran a hand through his hair; if this kept up, he wouldn't have much left.

The thug sitting on the other side of the glass had been silent thus far, refusing to admit anything about his former employer. He only wheezed and clutched his side, the two bullet wounds the Joker had delivered still burning like hell, Gordon figured. It was amazing that the man had even survived, a few inches off and he would be dead like the rest of the men on that rooftop.

Either the Joker was becoming careless, which the commissioner highly doubted, or he was half-blind and carrying a heavy load. Given what his forensics team had told him of the inch of grit left on the Roosevelt Building, he could only assume the latter.

There was no Batman this time to question the scruffy young man, so they had one of the veterans of the force doing the honors. So far, nothing had worked, neither intimidation nor bribes, the good old standbys at the MCU. No one in Gotham was willing to cross the Joker, even if their lives were so recklessly cast aside by the same madman.

Those who worked with him knew he wouldn't miss a second time.

That was the only angle Gordon legally had, unless he thought of something, and fast. This man knew where Anna Fischer was, and the commissioner would raise hell to get it out of him.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this, sorry it wasn't ALL action! I'm honestly curious to hear what you think...

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	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Thank you also to my anonymous reviewers: Censes, xxJokersgirlxx, Tasha, and Jenn! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman. **

**Enjoy! **

Four hours of questioning had passed.

Gordon pulled the heavy iron door shut behind him.

The disheveled young man only glared in response, no doubt recognizing his face as that of the commissioner. Normally a small-timer like this would never meet a man like him face to face, but this small-timer wasn't exactly a small-timer any longer. Not if the hundred-thirty death toll of the Gotham Central bombing had anything to say about it.

His footsteps hard on the tile, the commissioner paused before the table, the fluorescent light of the interrogation room highlighting the gray that had nearly overrun the russet of his hair. His voice was calm and composed, unlike Burns' had been; the last thing he wanted to do was scare the young man.

At least not yet.

"I only want to ask a few questions. Simple questions, a yes or no will do fine." The thug only continued to glower from his slumped position in the chair, breathing heavier than normal as he pressed a hand to the wound in his side. "No one is listening in this time – I've sent them away, I promise."

A pained laugh, forced between thin lips. The thug's voice sounded young, he _looked _young, maybe only twenty-two, twenty-three. "Oh yeah? How do I know that?"

First words their suspect had uttered all day, at least that was something.

Smiling sadly, Gordon only shrugged. "You're just going to have to trust me on this one."

His hands clasped in front of him, he searched for sign of a negative reaction, but found only promising results in the other man's visage. Gordon supposed he would start slow, simple questions to definitively prove her hostage state. With Burns constantly reminding him of the Joker's revenge, the commissioner figured his silence had been at least somewhat worn away by the stone of fear.

"So… the woman the Joker has with him, does she have the scars?"

Gordon was aware he needn't elaborate, any mention of a scar in Gotham had been forever tainted by the madman and his pallid countenance. There were scars, and then there were _the _scars; nothing was in the middle.

The young man didn't say a word; he didn't have to for the answer to be clear.

Nodding, the commissioner pulled out the straight-backed chair, falling into it with a silent sigh. His hands lay interlocked on the table, his entire demeanor radiating composure and quiet determination. Gaze catching with the Joker's henchman, Gordon kept his tone honest and level, the last avenue open to him before they were required to end the interrogation.

"Listen, you're in a bad situation. There's no getting around that, and you know it. Since the Joker, your boss, has already tried to kill you… it's likely he'll finish the job, whether you talk or not. True?" The commissioner paused, assessing the thug's interest. The other man seemed to be listening. "He'll assume compliance with the investigation, though to be frank, both you and I know he doesn't _need_ a reason to take a life. He's made it quite clear that you mean little to him, as he shot you with the intent to kill in the first place."

Holding the other man's gaze, Gordon leaned forward, injecting as much weight into his words as possible. "If you stay in the city, you will be a dead man. Without question. The longer you stay here, the more true that becomes. He'll get you on the streets or he'll get you in County, make no mistake about that. He'll even get you in here if we wait, I don't know if you remember Lau. The Joker isn't a forgiving individual."

Was that fear flickering in the young thug's eyes, Gordon wondered? Good, there should be if he wanted to survive.

"However…" Leaning back in the chair, he gestured as he spoke. "If you supply the location of the Joker's hostages, I will get you out of the city. I'll personally handle the arrangements, without the other officers' knowledge, so it won't get back to _him_. Hell… if I need to fly you to Chicago or New York myself, I will. You know this is your only way out, I'd use it if I were you."

He scoured the thug's face, cutting a true father figure as he inwardly prayed the offer would be accepted. "You can trust me, I promise."

Releasing a shaky breath, the thug slumped further and not entirely in pain. His dark hair lay matted against his forehead, eyes bright with the realization of how short his life really was. "How…" He swallowed and started again. "How soon can you do this?"

Gordon only smiled.

He knew he should have folded; Freddy had a flush to his pair of nines.

Groaning as he watched Freddy's hand gleefully swipe the bills from the table, Will could practically feel his wallet growing lighter already. He was far from a rich man, and Lord knew the Joker didn't pay too well, preferring to burn cash rather than dispense with it.

They had all heard about that little… incident. Needless to say, none of his crew had been happy, especially since the great majority of them had originally worked with the mob for most of their lives. Seeing their hard earned cash go up in flames was like a stab to the heart, for Will included.

He had worked with Gambol for fifteen years, taking care of the debtors and monitoring his rackets in case the bookies became too sly. Important work on the East Side, especially when the Narrows was notorious for its violent poker bars and two-faced bastards. His strong build and reputation for callousness had earned him a high spot in the mobster's crew, that was, until Gambol had been sliced through cheek to cheek by his current madman of a boss.

But it wasn't wise to think such thoughts, he remembered, he'd have to watch it; they said the Joker could read minds.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out three more twenties, lying them on the others waiting in the center of the table. The boys had already put in, and Will would guess there was over five hundred dollars in the pot. That's about what his paycheck would have been on a good night or two, before the Joker did his work.

Will could recognize good work when he saw it, having carved more than a few faces in his time. Each face was like the last, barely even registering as the knife sunk into flesh and ripped through it like fabric. Most of the time he never thought of these people after he had dragged them back into the street, leaving them with a mark of Gambol's wrath and a few broken bones.

Then that lady, Barker, had been brought to the warehouse.

The five of them were supposed to watch the hostage, though to be honest, she didn't need much watching. For the first day, all she did was sob, until one of the boys had whispered something in her ear to shut her up. She had closed her trap then for hours, sleeping fitfully and shivering at intervals. Easy job, really, all they had to do was smoke, sit, and play cards.

Then she began to talk. Half of it was lies, but the other half…

"You listening to me?"

Will blinked, breaking from his thoughts and directing his attention to Freddy. "What?"

"I asked if you think that lady is telling the truth."

The crisp sound of a card flipping from the deck, a queen of hearts. Not what he needed, he had mostly spades. "Course I don't. You think anyone would want to marry the _Joker_? Come on, use your head, she's lyin'."

One of the other men chimed in, a grizzled fellow whose name Will couldn't remember. "Yeah, that freak couldn't get a woman to look at him even if he paid her."

The rest of the men sniggered and grunted their agreement, but Freddy wasn't content to let the matter lie, as usual. A frown creasing his forehead, Will watched as he dealt another card. "But what about the scars? You tellin' me that's a coincidence?"

Will sighed, as much at his poor luck as Freddy pressing the issue. He didn't know what it was, but something niggled in the back of his head, something not right. "Listen, take it from me, Freddy, plenty of people get cut up in this town. She's probably some bookie who stole from him, or some broad he met before. Wouldn't surprise me if he gave her those scars himself."

Freddy shrugged, still perturbed but sensing the need to move on. Sliding his chair back, he placed his cards face down. "I fold, got to go check on the girl. And yeah, Will, you're right, I guess. None of my damn business anyway." He turned the next card and walked away, heading for the screen on the opposite side of the warehouse.

Damn, the final card, an ace of hearts. It was just not Will's day at all.

Her eyes leapt from the knives to his face and back again.

Under no circumstances would she allow herself to look further down. He didn't deserve the satisfaction of seeing the desire he had inspired in her earlier, however light.

God _damn_ him.

Anna knew they were alike, knew they were intertwined in ways neither had expected. For a man who saw every consequence, she bet he didn't see this one, for all the time they had lived together and he had watched her afterwards. In rare moments of honesty she could admit that she was closer to him than she realized, more practical and solemn as he had once been. She didn't exactly loathe it, either, recognizing that the person she had been was not always the best – she had to confess, he had been right more than she realized. The addictive personality had slowly been erased, charisma replaced by pragmatism, the inner blaze dampened to a quiet glow.

The opposite had seemed to happen to him.

He was wild, a force of nature when compared to the mortals that surrounded him, larger than life and ruled by only his own whims. The traits each had cast off the other had absorbed, changing them further into what they knew they should hate.

Anna hadn't realized she had spoken the last thought aloud, but his firm tone sent her crashing back to earth.

"_Hate_, darling? Funny word, very funny. Not hate, definitely not. You'd be dead already if I hated ya. We became what we _loved_…"

That strange need she had glimpsed before darkened his eyes.

A slight grin twitched at the corners of his lips, a hint of hunger underneath as he saw her eyes give in and stray down his form. Casting her a glance, a few steps and a spring and he was at the door, calling gruffly for the men still stationed in the living room. Their lumbering footsteps were heavy in the hallway, heralding the entrance of three thugs, one still donning his mask as he entered the bedroom. In their hands rested the gleaming barrels of silenced pistols.

Gesturing to her with a careless wave of his hand, he divided his stare between her and his men. "If she leaves the room at any timewithout me, shoot her. Don't ask questions, just _blow_ her head off. And boys, anything she says, anything at all, don't listen." In two long strides he was at the bed and rifling once more through his jacket, extracting a pistol from one of the pockets. Handing it to the nearest thug, he gestured broadly with his arm.

"There are no guns in here, so she won't be _armed_ with one. You're all going to wait outside and be ready, because ah, if you're no-_t_…" He trailed off tellingly, letting them fill in the blanks with whatever punishment they feared most. With the Joker, it didn't take much imagination to come up with fifty different ways of dying.

One look around the bedroom was enough to prove it.

Nodding eagerly they fled the room, taking up their stations outside as he slammed the door behind them. His hand reached for the lock but he seemed to think better of it, shrugging, his fingers moving to work on the buttons of his vest instead. Tossing the flashy garment on the dresser, he bent to rifle through the bags, removing a coil of rope from inside.

He advanced awkwardly, body slightly tilted. Fantastic, she figured, not five minutes without the damn bonds and it was back to being tied up. She rubbed furiously at her wrists, trying to restore blood flow while she still could.

The rope fell at her feet with a dull thud.

Eyebrows climbing higher, her mouth opened slightly, gaze drifting from the rope to his face. He couldn't possibly want her to…

_Oh…._

Well that explained the shooting order, as well as the firearm precautions. Jack had always been secretly thrilled by a risk, and it seemed now that at face value he cared nothing for his own life as well as those around him. In the end, he knew, he would have the last laugh, and to him, that's all that mattered.

It would be her own fear that kept the knife from slitting his throat, kept her in check. All he had to do was sit back and enjoy it, wielding control over her when it seemed he had none.

And the bastard _was_ enjoying it…

Shocked, Anna thought some corner of her mind might have been too.

His tongue crept between his lips, gliding across the scars as his eyes raked her like hot coals. Twin pools of deep brown had darkened to black, offering a silent promise if she would accept it. Reason screeched inside her head to refuse, anything was better than being forced to play this game again…. Yet try as she might, she couldn't entirely convince herself she was even being forced, almost like two skilled players setting the bet and the prize, humming with the need to win.

And the rules could be changed, couldn't they?

Her eyes must have given her away, eager for the challenge. Captivated by the flame and dying to play, drawn to its heat despite all warnings.

Their lips crashed together, plans and emotions exploding within her head like several thousand fireworks. The scars were both everything and nothing, his tongue plundering her mouth even as she fought back in kind.

Through the haze of the kiss, she felt the warm handles of the switchblades thrust into her hand.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this!

**PLEASE REVIEW! **


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Wow, thank you to EVERYONE who reviewed, from the bottom of my heart! Thank you also to my anonymous reviewers: Jenn, Maria, Nara, Tasha, xxJokersgirlxx, anonymous, and Censes! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman. **

**Enjoy! **

Her fingers closed around the soft fabric of his tie.

Jerking him closer, she fought to rise above the searing torrent flooding her veins, feeling for all the world like a woman who had stepped once more into the sunshine after years in the dark. It was bright, hot, and painful, her skin roasting beneath his wandering hands, fingertips scorching her skin where they brushed her arms, her neck.

Her lips ached from his teeth, and dear god, she wished he would stop but the firm grip on his tie pulled him closer nonetheless. He tasted of gunpowder and blood, the coppery tang mixing with the acrid smoke like mustard gas and roses, with what she would know anywhere as Jack just beneath the surface. She craved the small bursts of the familiar, tantalizing reminders of the man with the passionate kiss and achingly clever tongue. She had known his mouth so well, knew just where to touch and how to tease, but the sensation was barely recognizable to her now. The soft flesh of his cheeks was anything but smooth, as pitted and rutted as the outside had been to her fingertips. It was surreal, horrifying but begging her to explore, and, by the way he growled and pressed against her, she figured he had found hers too.

The scars were everything and nothing, just like they had always been.

She felt like she was on the precipice, about to tumble in, his tongue sweeping across to give brief respite from the bites and drawing her ever forward. His kiss had always been intense, bordering on violent, but it hadn't been like this.

Anna knew what she wanted to do.

Not bothering to break the kiss, she crouched to the ground, wrenching him down with her by the lead on his neck. She reached for the rope with her free hand, marveling at how easily he followed her direction when he wanted to, content to revel in the abrupt pain. Her arm went through the loop and she rose once more, her fingers deftly flicking open one of the blades and holding it against his throat.

Breathing erratic, she broke away, meeting his gaze through his half-closed lashes, greasy hair tumbling across his forehead. She blinked; for a moment, he almost looked like Jack.

"You will…" Anna stopped and took a breath, a warm flush beginning low in her stomach as she took in the way his body responded. "You will do what I say. Is that clear?"

His only response was to press closer into the blade, his breathing quickening at the sensation. Reflexively she began to reduce the pressure, her old precautions coming to life, and his eyes flashed in protest.

She resisted the urge to grin, seeing an opportunity. "Not yet." Guiding him with both the blade and a well-placed hand on his stomach, she forced him backwards to the bed, uncaring if the position was uncomfortable. Sending him backward with a terse shove, he landed awkwardly and paused, silently compelling her to make another move.

"Move back and lie flat." With a quirk of a grin, he remained still, dark eyes glittering as he challenged her to hurt him. Prove it.

Wouldn't want to disappoint, she figured, an idea entering her head.

Stepping quickly to the side of the bed, she deftly tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled, pleasantly surprised as a groan tore from his scarred lips. He edged backwards to the headboard, eyes closed to slits, moving just slow enough to keep her from stopping.

And there he was – her hand commanding his body as she dragged him where he wished to go. A spring of horror bubbling within her, she could barely believe this was happening. He may have been the Joker, but she knew Jack better than anyone.

Unfortunately, it worked the same in both directions.

Wrestling with her pounding heart, she tried to ignore the throbbing beginning just below her stomach, a warm spike sent through her with his every sound. It had been too long, the dullness of drunken one night stands nothing compared to the giddy rush soaring through her brain. Swiftly climbing onto the mattress, she swung her leg over him, purposefully positioning herself above his waist.

His tongue flicked from between his lips as he watched her tear savagely through a length of rope, seizing his wrists and raising them above his head. He was giggling near her ear, her breasts brushing against his chest as she tied him securely to the rungs of the headboard, fire licking her insides at the sight.

A laugh caught between his teeth, he bucked his hips upwards, teasing her with the pressure. "Still your favoritepart. Anna, you haven't changed_._"

Gritting her teeth, she fought the gasp working its way up her throat, the heat through his trousers playing havoc with her head. Without thinking, she backhanded him, too light to do great damage but enough to knock his head to the side. He only laughed wildly at the blow, gasping for air as his hips slowed, the muscles in his arms taut beneath the skin.

"You've gotten quite a mouth. And that just… won't do." Her mouth tightening, she delivered another blow for good measure, his ecstatic cackling racing like wildfire down to her core. No wonder he loved the Batman so much, she could only imagine the power in those fists.

At one time she would have never dared hit him like that, but he only seemed to enjoy it, rising up to meet her touch as she unwound his tie and methodically unbuttoned his shirt. One of the knives poised between her knuckles, it dragged across his chest as she worked her way down, a thin rivulet of blood following in its wake. She swallowed thickly at the sight of it, horror warring with desire inside her head, yet he didn't seem to care with his eyes closed in bliss.

Had she actually _missed _this?

Yes…Yes, she had, if her body had anything to say about it.

The last button pulling free, she peeled away the hexagonal silk, grinding into him as a low groan left his lips. Positioning the blade's tip just above the waist of his trousers, she applied a little pressure, practically seeing the flames ripping through him. Anna could read his body with ease, in tune with every thrust and shift, an understanding born of practice. It didn't take much practice to understand the heat throbbing against her thigh, however, his body almost shaking as she drew the blade to his side, ignoring the maelstrom of horror and desire to lightly push the knife into his flesh.

Mouth opening, he lifted from the mattress, his body rubbing her in ways that tore gasps from her throat. His voice was barely above a growl, a harsh desperation coloring the words. "Harder… do it… _harder_… I want you to do it, I want you to do it…"

She was sickened by the way his body welcomed the knife, half wanting to retch. Jack simply had to learn he couldn't get _everything _he wanted.

Her fingers slick with blood, she removed the knife just as it seemed she would thrust further, wondering why in hell his expressions sent lightning through her body. Anna watched as he moaned in protest, pulling roughly at the bonds securing his hands above his head. His eyes flickered open, the blaze contained within them spreading rapidly through her limbs.

Tsking, she lightly ran her fingers over his chest, alternating between the sting of her nails and the soft pads of her fingertips. Unable to resist the opportunity, she kept her tone disinterested and level, a harsh contrast to the slow burning between her legs.

"This new life of yours not giving youeverythingyou wanted? And I thought you were smarter than that, Jack.… " The blade danced over the strong muscles of his chest, languidly making its way to his stomach once more. Damn, he had really kept in shape. "… Seems you haven't changed either."

Anna had to admit, she was surprised the fantasy hadn't died. Most of hers had even before the divorce.

"But, lucky for you…" Tightly grasping the blade, she slipped it between the buttons of his pants, a thrill running through her as she felt him grow harder. A clean slice through the thread and the buttons fell harmlessly to the side, blood pumping loud in her ears as he shuddered beneath her. "… I'm willing to overlook that."

Leaving the knife on his chest, she deftly left his hips and dropped to the floor, ignoring his stare as it raked across her form. Quickly dropping her jeans, she clung tightly to the other knife, wondering if she would actually have the self-control to go through with her plan. Whatever he was saying she tuned him out, sparing only a glance over her shoulder. His gaze was raw, it _hurt_ to return it, and so she focused anywhere but him, her body humming impatiently as she reclaimed her position.

"So… where were we?" Flicking open the shredded front of his trousers with the knife's tip, she shifted and rolled her hips, growing wet at the desire so apparent in his normally guarded eyes. He spurred her on with murmured pleas, knife point digging once more into his stomach, held lazily in her hand. Tugging both trousers and boxers down his hips, she couldn't help but grin, thousands of memories rushing through her head.

Gripping him firmly, she gave him a few slow strokes, his eyes rolling back into his head. Smooth and slick, she continued her careful ministrations, increasing her speed as his breathing grew sharper. This was the part she had always loved, seeing him happy, seeing the fruit of her labors – she supposed some small part of her still did.

Jack strained at the ropes holding him, her body on his thighs holding him in place. "On the… the…" His head jerked in the direction of the dresser, unable to quite catch his breath as she kept time with the knife on his thigh. "Nails and long… spikes."

Briefly she considered threatening to shove one of them up his ass if he kept talking, but decided against it with a flicker of a smile. Etching a small 'A' into the skin, she shook her head, wondering what he would say when he saw. "Absolutely not."

Not giving him time to request further, she stopped her attentions, rising onto her knees and slowly lowering herself onto him.

Biting her lips, she heard her own pleasure in his voice, a soft cry of surprise and satisfaction that she was dying to capture with her mouth. His green-tinged curls shook as he began to rock with her, cursing madly with what remained of his breath, muttering _exactly _what he wanted in the foulest language she had ever heard. She shivered to hear him, responding violently in kind, not caring if it made any sense for the heady pressure building within her.

Grabbing onto the headboard, she leaned forward, dark hair hanging and forming a curtain between them and the world. She squeezed his sides with her knees, hips meeting hips and driving spires of pleasure through her core. Closing her eyes, she could barely suck air into her lungs, almost forgetting to breathe as each thrust slid roughly in and out.

A hand breaking away from the headboard, she let it fall to his chest. Her eyes snapped open at the dull wetness of it, swathes of crimson stretching across her flushed skin, the gashes trickling blood as his heart pounded faster. Barely thinking, Anna made to move her hand.

"Don't." A gasp.

Oddly persuaded by his tone, she pressed further into the wounds, repulsed by the little springs of scarlet that frothed over her tender fingers. Jack didn't have to say a word, and she doubted she would have let him.

Through the haze clouding her mind, she was sorry to see it have to end.

Close, he was so close, her nails digging into his flesh as he lifted further from the mattress. A minute more and he would finish, and dear God, she knew she would too.

On three.

One… Two…

Three.

Pulling back her arm, she caught him in the jaw, her fist breaking his rhythm as he collapsed in shock. Anna was barely able to think, fingers fumbling with the knife as it slid open with a hiss, metal gleaming in the lamplight. Holding it to his throat, she swallowed a groan, feeling him inside her and wishing it could stay that way.

"I'm going to stop…" She spoke thickly, unable to ignore the thin trail of sweat slipping languorously down the curve of his face. "And when I do, I'm not going to untie you, Jack. You can call for your men, but they'll –" Bracing herself against his form, she rode out his struggling, shock and fury slowly replacing the eagerness she had seen before. "They'll see you… like this… and even if you kill them, for that one moment, you won't be God to them. You won't be the Joker. You'll be Jack. You'll be like the people you torture and show for fun. You'll be like _me_, bound, suffering, and pleading. And you're going to get to see every minute of it."

Placing her hand on his stomach, she began to rise.

His laughter sliced cleanly to the bone.

Of all things, he was laughing at this, as if he wasn't about to be humiliated and dragged down to humanity's level, left in agony so close yet so far as she never allowed him to come.

A high, shrill, _insane _laughter.

"Keep laughing, I'm sure you think it helps." She didn't _want_ to do this; didn't he see that she _had_ to? Anna didn't want to be drawn into his games forever, not like he had promised. She wanted Jack, she wanted her husband, not this cackling, insane –

His tone was almost unrecognizable, his eyes brimming with fury and despair. "You just don't getit do you? You think this all has an _end_? You think you can what, shame me, hmm, and I'll let you go? Change my _purpose_? Stop fighting it. We are who. We. Are. And you, Anna…."

Growling, he held her eyes, and she was dimly aware of the promise he had made to her in her attorney's presence. A promise to reunite them in ways neither law nor man could ever break, an intertwining of their very minds.

"You are just like me."

A/N: Wow, sorry this has taken so long! I hope you enjoyed it...

And by the way, SHE WON'T END UP JOINING HIM! Just thought I should make that clear :)

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	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Also to my anonymous reviewers: Jenn and xxJokersgirlxx! The Joker's POV is in the flashback. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman. **

**Enjoy! **

Her mouth tightened, fingernails digging into her palm.

"No, that's where you're wrong, _Jack_. We're not the same, we never were."

Sickened by the feeling of him under her, Anna unhooked her leg and sat on the edge of the bed, some part of her missing his heat. Her elbows propped on her knees, she let icy indifference wash over her, trying to think. "Years ago, maybe, I wouldn't have said that. I would have hoped that somewhere underneath, you were like me. Or that I was like you. But now…." Glancing over her shoulder, she took in the raging fire of his eyes, knowing he could complete her thought without needing to hear it.

Now, he was more like the old her than she ever was. Carefree, spontaneous, passionate, everything taken to the maximum. And she, now more like that awkward twenty-one year old in the park than he had ever been. Worried, grim, and dissatisfied, hiding behind a façade.

This wasn't how she had seen her life.

When little girls dressed up in mother's clothes and make-up, they didn't think, I want to marry a sociopath. When students daydreamed in high school classes, their minds didn't envision cramped one bedroom apartments and dead-end jobs. No one dreamed of too little money and too much pain, of gambling and drinking, blowing train stations to kingdom come.

Shaking her head, she stared sightlessly at the ground, knife held listlessly in one hand. "I don't know how it came to this."

The Joker sneered behind her, his breathing still heavy, no doubt finding such introspection a useless activity. One of his knees roughly made contact with her lower back, sending a low jolt through her body. "Go look in the _mirror_, for that one. You don't see what you don't… wantto see. You blame me for everything, always did. I didn't want that-that _thing _you wanted me to sign. I didn't go drinking, hell I didn't even go gamblin-g. _You_ did, Anna." He chuckled darkly, his calf coming to rest against her backside. He was probably in pain, she knew he was, but he hid it well. "Does it… hurt you, Anna, to think that you were the one to screw u-p your own life?"

Gritting her teeth, she turned half-around, the mockingly innocent expression on his face nothing but insulting. Well, figures he would be furious, even if he had abandoned it for a deceptively sweet tone. "I'm not going to deny what I did, but even _you_ know, somewhere in that twisted head of yours, that you were the catalyst. I could never please you, and I tried, God knows I tried. What I put in, I never got back – when it came to _anything_. You choked off my life until there was nothing but you. I was your possession, or you wanted me to be, at least. All so you could play your little mind games." Leaning forward, she noted his tangled greenish locks, the slight tilt of his head as he appraised her. "Tell me, Jack, you think this is what I wanted? You think this is what I wanted out of life?"

Rolling his eyes, he readjusted his arms, his lips smacking together with a soft pop. She could hear the exasperation in his voice, completely at odds with the tension and strain in his body. "So let me _see_… you're angry – at me – for the way _life_ took your little plans and expectations and turned them upside down. Don't ever _hope_" he said the word as if it were disgusting, "for a _fair-y-tale_ life, because life just ain't goin' to give it to ya. No, life – life gave you _me_, and it's staying that way."

"Over my dead body, Jack."

Anger slowly set to boil within her chest, Anna crossly leapt from the bed, reaching for her discarded jeans. Realizing the irony of her statement, she hastily slipped into them, the denim crusted with blood, dirt, and who knew what else as it slid over her thighs. She refused to see the smirk she knew was on his lips.

Her legs ached as she fought with the stiff material, forcing her words out gruffly. "What the hell did you ever see in me anyway?"

"That's just the thing… I _saw _you. Everyone else only thought, that they knew you. I saw you for who you really are." The exasperation had faded, but he sounded like he was explaining something that shouldn't have needed any.

If she didn't know him to be a bit off before, she certainly would have believed it now. Brushing aside his comments, she quickly set to work on her buttons. "Sure… so from a few conversations you saw me for who I _really_ was –"

"Not _was_. _Are._ You haven't changed, even though you'd like to think so. I always saw that sadness inside you, underneath the _colorrrs_. That pain was just waiting to come out. I had to help it along, you were mine from the moment I saw you. You just… _don't realize it yet_." He started to giggle, completely losing it as the words tumbled from his mouth.

Feeling like she was staring at a car wreck, Anna watched as his shoulder shook in mirth she didn't understand, howls of laughter echoing around the room. She hadn't known his obsession ran so deep from the very beginning, but the thought chilled her, knotting cords of worry to lie among the blooms of desire. Contradictions and vexation swirled in her brain, making it so very hard to decide on a single course of action. There was only thing for certain, no matter the way he had made her feel.

She couldn't stay here.

Still clutching the knife, she turned away from the mattress and the quaking form upon it, half-formed plans running through her head. Jack could keep laughing all he wanted, the sound had become almost familiar to her, as he couldn't directly do anything to stop her. The ropes would hold tightly for as long they needed to, and if he called in his men… well then they would have a front row seat to the humbling of a God. But in the meantime, she figured, it wouldn't hurt to look around for something of use, would it?

Walking to the dresser, she tore irritably through the bags and exposed items, seeing nothing that would pass for a long range weapon. Hammers and nails, skewers, some knives the size of or smaller than the one already in her hand. A few of the blades could be thrown, but she didn't trust her aim, especially if it was dark. Scowling, she realized she didn't even know night from day in the windowless prison of a bedroom.

"You won't find anything _there_." His tone laconic, he was still swallowing the last of his giggles as she spun to face him.

Anna fought to keep emotion from her voice, beginning to wonder what he was playing at. "What's that supposed to mean? Is there something else?"

"No." The Joker shrugged, his yellowed teeth bared in a grin. "I'm just saying, there isn't anything there."

Trust him to find it amusing to plant the seed of hope and watch it drown in her tears. If she knew him at all, he probably just wanted to see her search frantically for a nonexistent gun, launched on the ultimate wild goose chase, before summoning his men or forcing her into freeing him.

Hope and fear, the two single greatest weapons in his arsenal, and both were utilized solely for amusement.

Schooling her features into a semblance of composure, she shrugged, turning back to the bags littering the floor. Either a bottle of gin or a gun, whichever came out of the bag first would be enough for her. "Can't hurt to look. I don't trust you much."

He actually had the gall to look offended, his eyes widening in false surprise. "Not trust _me? _I've been nothing but a constant and loyal husband. The truth is… fleet_ing_, in comparison. Can't say the same for you though, _can_ I?"

She ignored his taunt, eyeing the bag of mousetraps to her left and peeking into the next, nothing but more of the usual meeting her gaze. Her calves were starting to throb from crouching, pockmarked with bruises and gashes that smarted as her muscles shifted beneath them. She tossed aside the empty bags and quickly moved on, a growl starting low in her throat as bag after bag proved useless.

As if picking up on her frustration, Jack couldn't resist the opportunity to press it further. The silence had been killing him, she knew, he was nearly always talking – either to himself or to another, it didn't truly matter. "So ah, darling, did you hmm… prove even less faithful while you were in _Chi-ca-go?" _

Standing, she made for the closet, not bothering to rise to his bait. She was many things, but foolish and begging for a beating were not included, no matter how satisfying the look on his face would be. "I'm not going to answer that." The door opened with a slight creak, spilling light into the musty and regrettably empty interior. A soft sigh escaping her lips, she turned and caught sight of the bed, notably its darkened underbelly.

"Oh but you should… you really should, Anna." He cooed disdainfully, hiding the iron that ran beneath the sanguine coating. The idea of his possession being touched by another was simply revolting, that much was obvious. His eyes followed her as she knelt beside the mattress, ducking her head to scan what its black shadow hid.

Nothing but papers, what looked like doodles and drawings of bomb plans, a sketch or two of a building no doubt blown to smithereens. No guns, no knives, not even a mousetrap. Farther towards the headboard, she could see a rectangular object, not that large, hulking just beyond her reach. Blindly reaching under, she strained to grasp it, her fingers brushing something rough as her chin rested on the ground. One inch further, and she found purchase, dragging it into the light.

Anna blinked.

Its edges were uneven, what looked like scorch marks racing along the back cover. The front was folded and half ripped away, but she didn't need a title to recognize the frayed yellow pages, still intact after years of countless wear and tear. She had never thought she would be so happy to see it again, an indication that her Jack was not merely a figment of her memories but had been a living person, so different from and yet the same as the man now struggling to see what she had found.

Without a word, she stood and headed for the dresser, novel tightly clutched to her chest. The Joker's knife and Jack's book, held in both of her hands.

Laying it carefully on the only exposed stretch of wood, she made no mention of it, almost taking comfort from its presence. There were men in the hallway ready to shoot her, she was searching for the wind as her husband watched and laughed, but oddly enough, Dostoevsky brought a bit of peace.

The switchblade warm in her hand, her fingers crept to the first drawer, carefully pulling it from its wooden home. What looked like two shirts lay crumpled inside, one marred with old brown-black stains. They were of cheaper material, she noted, than the shirt he had been wearing recently, the hues not as vibrant and the hint of a tag sticking out from the collar. Oddly enough, it looked like his blood, given the rips in the fabric itself.

The drawer closed with a dull thud.

The second held blank sheets of paper, pencils no more than stubs littered among the sharpies. A few cell phones, all missing batteries as her quick check proved, lay scattered on top.

Closing it swiftly, she reached for the last drawer, practically feeling his eyes bore into her back. More shirts in outrageous patterns met her eyes, some ripped and bloodstained, others seemingly discarded in favor of more expensive fare. Technicolor socks, none of them matching, were interspersed among the rumpled collared shirts, most with holes. Flicking through them with the tip of her knife, she couldn't help but think how like Jack that –

A sock fell away, exposing the gleaming metal beneath.

Barely breathing, she reached into the sea of color, her hand seizing her prize and dragging it from the depths.

Her mouth opening and closing of its own accord, a giddy sense of victory coursed through her veins. Her hand absentmindedly ghosted over the long barrel, the metal dull and heavy in her hands. Some men had the odd piece or hidden object in their sock drawer, he had a .44 Magnum.

Gaze jumping to his, she couldn't help but perceive the lack of shock, though he certainly didn't seem elated. It was possible he had forgotten about it, but that explanation seemed too simple for a man so complex, who predicted actions before the person themselves knew what they wanted to do. She wet her lips, hardly trusting herself to speak, voice shaky as it was. "Did you plan this?"

"I never _plan_ for anything." He murmured darkly, emotions warring in the trenches of his face, no clear victor emerging even as he continued. "And ah, what are you going to do with _tha-t_?"

Brows furrowing, she couldn't think of a witty answer, couldn't think of anything but the fundamental choice before her. Searching for a gun she may never find was one thing, actually holding the weapon and intending to use it, die with it even, was entirely another. "I still have to weigh my options."

His tongue darted between his lips, about to speak but distracted by the way she moved her hands along the gun, each swipe visibly sending shocks down his form. Sighing quietly, she halted her actions, observing as he pulled himself together with a grunt of pain.

"Whatever you decide – and oh, I'll let you decide, I _think_ – you won't be free. No matter where you go, who you're with, you can'_t_ escape." His voice swooped to the lower part of its range, chilling her with its timbre. "I'll follow you. I'll follow _you_, and the _Bat_man will follow _me_, and we'll. Never. Be. Apart. We'll be like a… roulette wheel, spinning around and around and around. Except the ball is never going to land. You can't leave. Not again."

Being on the run was better than being here. There were three men out there, and the catch was – indeed the very twinkle in his eye – that it was either her or them. If he wanted to see her squirm, looking over her shoulder every minute of every day for a flash of purple, then he would not be rewarded.

Anna thought maybe, just maybe… that didn't seem so bad.

Flipping the safety on the gun, she took a breath.

His eyes followed the movement.

_I shuffle in beside her, fake leather seat smelling faintly of alcohol and cheap cologne. She tells the driver our address, or at least I think she does, I'm not listening. _

_That bastard's face swims before my eyes. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. _

_The door slams shut and the cab takes off, the driver humming along to a ridiculous pop song, enough to make me want to… I don't know what. I'd think of something eventually, I know. To spare myself I turn to the window, colors blending with the rain into a phantasmagoric display, one I know Anna can't see like I do. I want to show her how I see the world, the urge so strong at times it feels like it's blazing through my skin, on and on and on… I hope the blaze doesn't catch her too. _

_I wouldn't mind if it swallowed her father. _

_The silence is oppressive, but I can't bring myself to speak. Most of the time, I can't live without it, but now… I try to make sense of the emotions whirling in my head, the sort that are unwelcome in my life yet show up anyway. Someday I think I'll just slam the door, they've always been strangers to me. _

_Slam the door and burn the house down. _

_I shouldn't be embarrassed, why am _I _embarrassed? I'm not the ignorant pig, the self-satisfied fool, the father of my fiancé who thinks he knows everything in the world. I try to convince myself that I'm not to blame, but I can't meet her eyes. _

_I don't want to see the disappointment written there. _

"_Hey." She reaches for my limp hand, gives it a squeeze, flashing a smile I guess is reassuring. It sure as hell ain't working. "Don't worry about it, ok?" _

_She is a remarkable woman, but she doesn't… understand some things. She doesn't understand why I worry so much, why it festers under my skin until I want to scratch it out. It's like a survival mechanism, holding back the things I don't want to see, that part of myself I don't want to know. _

_She says I worry too much. _

_I have enough to worry about. _

_Mouth tightening, my free hand forms into a fist. My throat is tight, the words having to punch their way out of me. "I know that… that this night meant, a lot, to you… I'm sorry I screwed it up for you." _

_There, I said it. _

_I rarely ever apologize. _

"_No you didn't, Jack. They're just, like that. They're quite the uh, the teasers." _

_She is a good woman, I think, a tantalizing blend of verve and sorrow that makes my very mouth water. I can hear the honesty in her voice, I always can. I can read her in ways she doesn't know. That she didn't hear her father's words I am thankful, for I would hear the shame even more. _

_Some of the names he called me, she would not be happy. _

"_Yeah well, apparently I have a pole up my ass." There, I said that too. _

_Anna sighs and moves closer, her heat welcome in the cold. Leaning her head on my shoulder, she draws small circles on my thigh, and she would smile if she knew how much it affected me. "They just don't know you like I do. They don't know you when you… loosen up." _

_I want to grin but I can't, it isn't proper. I'm always doing that, grinning when most say I shouldn't be, and I don't know why. Squeezing her hand gently, I lay a kiss on her black hair, curling my arm around her. She fits well here, with my arm around her, small compared to my broad shoulders and chest. This always manages to calm me down. _

"_I don't think your father likes me, I tried to be nice." _

_Yes, yes I did. I wouldn't have cared normally, but I did it for her. _

"_My father doesn't like most guys, trust me. He has old ideas sometimes; he just doesn't understand that I don't want the things he thinks I should want. I want you." _

_Did I say she is a good girl?_

_She is an amazing girl, all the more because she is mine and mine alone. Exquisite, but only because of that fact, all physical beauty merely incidental, a figment of society. If she lost it, I should not care, so long as she never lost that flame which spurs me to her side time and time again. _

_To make her laugh and to ease the choler boiling within me, I imitate the gruff voice of her father. It isn't hard, it sounds like a dog's growl, somewhere between death and a pitfight. "'Accountant? My daughter marry an accountant? Say, where you work boy – oh _that _place, you'll never get anywhere.'" Didn't matter I had only been working there about six months and, given my boss' hatred, probably for not much more, but I wasn't about to bring that up. _

"_He's just angry because they wanted me to marry a doctor." She chuckles, but I can't find the heart to join in, sensing the lie beneath her well-meaning words. _

"_Maybe this is something you can laugh off, but I can't." Like they usually do, my thoughts scatter chaotically, alighting on a passage from, appropriately,_ The Idiot: A Novel in Four Parts. _Given her determined state of mind, I don't think she'd appreciate such self-deprecating humor, especially not after tonight. _

"_Why not? He was being ridiculous – I don't take him seriously, and he's my father." _

"_I'd wanted to make a good ah, _impression_, he's my... father-in-law. Waiting so long probably wasn't the best idea, either." The hatred and anger are bubbling up again, something I thought I had under lock and key for years. When I see her father's face, I see _his _face, the one I had hoped to leave behind. The last time I saw my father's face, it was smashed on the pavement, not even by my own hand though I almost wish it was. "Some sort of approval would have been nice. I'm sick of wanting it. Why do I need it?" _

_For a second, I can't believe I actually just said that. _

_She doesn't acknowledge the privacy of the statement, merely kissed my hand. "You have mine." _

"Well, t_hanks." The memory of her father is still in my head, and the mimic returned with a vengeance. When I want to mock something, I am a force to be reckoned with, unfortunately. "'You live _there_ – in that dump? It's all you can afford? Well that's what you get for being an accountant. I can't believe my daughter's living _there_. To think we raised her to - '" _

"- _Don't listen to him, I like our apartment. It has you in it, after all. Don't worry about money." _

_Sighing, I cast her a glance, secretly happy that I have her in the deck life has chosen to deal me. I am not happy for many things, it's always been a fleeting state of being, but here we are. She doesn't know what I would do for her, though I think she need only ask. "No, we _should _be worried about it." I sigh, just wanting to get home so I can fall into her body and forget this whole mess. "Sometimes I feel like burning all of it, and just walking away." _

_That feeling is stronger lately, but always, she is with me. I would feed others to the flames, but not her. _

_She laughs, taking it as a joke, albeit one I didn't intend. "An accountant, burning money. I would love to see it." _

_I remain silent, pondering the idea of a flaming stack of cash, a pleasant sight indeed. She speaks again, her voice is quiet, and I strain to listen. "But, Jack... you ever just want to leave our life? We could move, you know, go to Chicago."_

_My stomach plummets but I can't explain why, normally I'd be overjoyed at the idea. There is something tying me to this place, strings about my arms and legs. "I don't think I could, Anna. I'm too attached to Gotham, keep feeling like there's something I should do." _

"_What is it?" She tilts her head, and I can't help but smile. _

"_I don't know." A beat. "Keep you happy?" _

_She laughs as the car comes to a stop, pulling me into the rain as soon as she hands over the bills. _

"_Then_ d_o your worst, Jack. I insist." _

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this, I'd like to know what you think. Sorry for the long delay, I do take your comments into consideration!

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	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: It's been so long, I'm sorry! Thank you to all who reviewed! Thank you also to my anonymous reviewer, xxJokersgirlxx! WOW, 300 reviews, you all are the best! Also, Will, Anna, Batman, and Gordon all have POVs in this chapter. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. **

**Enjoy!**

Will shook his head, wishing he could forget Freddy's bullet-ridden corpse.

"I told you, I don't know nothing. And bluebell, I don't care if you believe me. The boys with the Boss know stuff we didn't; they could tell you that sort of crap." For once in his life, the mob veteran was actually telling the truth, working with the Joker was like working in the dark most of the time. Dangerous and stupid, but sometimes, you just didn't have a choice.

Tearing his eyes away from the National Guard milling around the warehouse entrance, he appraised his makeshift holding cell, nothing more than a few armed cops and some stretches of steel wire. He only needed to take one look at the grizzled detective – Burns, he dimly remembered – to realize how it all went down. "But… you already had one of them boys, didn't you? This wasn't no accident."

In Gotham, police raids happened for one of two reasons – the Batman, or by accident. The former hadn't been seen since the station bombing, the city up in arms against him with riots erupting daily outside the Mayor's office in protest. The name 'Batman' was a slur now to most people, his presence having twisted from one of protection to one of menace. And since there weren't any dead loyalist cops lying around as the mob swept the raid under the carpet, Will figured it wasn't the latter.

Gordon himself must have rigged this.

Shifting uneasily on his feet, Burns glanced hastily at his watch, clearly looking like he would rather be somewhere else. "Well you're right, I'll give you that. However said source has… refused to give us the Joker's location until moved to a safe location. We should be getting it in a few minutes."

Will's eyebrows climbed higher on his forehead; that was definitely a new development.

One of the surrounding guards quickly handed the lieutenant a folder, rather thick by the look of it. Burns cleared his throat, thumb absentmindedly flicking the manila edge. "Until then, I guess I'll ask you a few questions. So… were you told anything about the woman you were guarding?"

The mobster shook his head, figuring he could play along for now. If they actually managed to capture the Joker – though truth be told, Will figured he'd see his body on the six o'clock news instead, if the Mayor had a say – no use getting dragged to jail with him for sheer belligerence. "Just not to kill her."

"Did you mistreat her?"

"No, didn't need to. Those bruises ain't from us."

Will watched as the other man unconsciously leaned forward, gaze narrowing as he scrutinized his suspect's face. Whatever the next question was, it was something the police were dying to know. "Did she ever say anything to you?"

A beat.

"Yes."

Flashes of annoyance and curiosity crossed the detective's face by turns. "What?"

"She said you're a fat ass, what do you want me to say? I'm not going to speak anything against _him_."

Face settling into one of icy exasperation, the detective leveled his gaze, curiosity absent from his voice. "You don't need to worry much about his revenge, we'll get him good this time. So, if I have to ask you again, you aren't going to like it, so just answer the damn question. What did Loretta Barker say about the Joker?"

Will shrugged, the strong muscles of his shoulders shifting easily beneath the loose t-shirt. "Freddy could have told you that. Stupid fool, going for his gun during a cop raid…. I didn't hear everything but, uh, she said that the broad he wanted so much was his wife. Said she was scarred too."

"Did you believe it?"

"Hell no."

Burns flipped open the folder, removing a photo taken in what looked like a police office. The date on the back seemed very recent, even if it was a bit grainy in quality. "Do you recognize this woman?"

His mouth dropped open as comprehension dawned.

He didn't recognize the lady directly, at least not at first, but the scars practically leapt off the page and into his brain. Like a skilled craftsman, he would know his own work anywhere, the familiar hook on the left side his own little master touch to the process. They had healed rather well, considering her skin type, and to be truthful he hadn't done more than two or three women in his years under Gambol…

A glimmer, and it all came crashing back.

This one had been an accountant's wife, though for the life of him, he couldn't remember her name. Got in deep over six to nine months, nearly fifteen grand by the time Gambol called upon his services. Relatively broke, he remembered, with a husband that couldn't hold a job and an addictive personality to put a junkie to shame.

Staring into the sightless eyes of the image, Will didn't even notice the detective's cell phone begin to ring.

She stared sightlessly down the gleaming barrel.

An unforgiving black hole returned her gaze, a promise of nothing and an end to all, reminding her sharply of something Jack used to say. Anna couldn't exactly remember the quote, something about looking into the abyss and the abyss looking into you. Odd that her mind should be thinking of such things, she thought, standing precariously on the precipice as she was and lacking the will to jump. Her finger had not yet come to rest against the trigger, some primordial sense of self-preservation giving her pause. No matter how awry her life seemed to have gone, this definitely wasn't how she saw it ending.

The barrel sank lower, coming to rest at her side.

Furious with herself for even entertaining the pathetic notion, she tightened her grip on the handle, gaze jumping to that of her husband. If she was going to die, it wouldn't be by her own hand in a musty, blood-spattered flat, the Joker looking guardedly on. A part of her vexed that he hadn't tried to stop her, Anna knew that he hadn't needed to; there was never really a question if she would fight rather than concede defeat. She knew, and he knew, it simply wasn't in her nature.

Neither was patience.

"Call your men off." The odds that he would listen were slim, but she kept her voice steady all the same. No use threatening to shoot him, the corner of her mind who still thought of him as Jack would never permit her to carry through with it. She honestly doubted if he would care anyway, having been granted the last laugh.

He cocked his head to the side, tenor in the lower depths of its range. "And why would I do a thing like that? Going to shoo-t me?"

"I was considering it. Your men won't be so lucky… if you don't stop them." Anna didn't even need to think to hear how ridiculous that statement sounded coming from her, though her solemn expression never wavered. There wasn't a person in Gotham who didn't know how to fire a weapon, practically one of the prerequisites for living in the city limits, and she was no exception. If it came down to her or the men outside, the answer was rather simple, even if she would aim first for the kneecaps and then the gut. Of course, all of this hinged on whether or not she could yet muster some courage, since blindly rushing into the hallway seemed as brilliant as her earlier notion.

As it was, she was stuck with a loaded gun and a half-baked plan.

"I see, oh I _see_. So you're going to take on my men with _two_ bullets?" He grinned cockily, sucking on the inside of his cheek as he watched her gaze fall to the firearm in her hand. Deftly opening the magazine, she swore inwardly, only two of the expected five meeting her eyes. "And that thing has one, _nasty_ recoil… sure you can hold it steady?"

She didn't need his pointed taunting, doubt beginning to creep under the fortifications quickly erected around her mind. Two bullets, why in the name of God only two bullets? Perhaps she was reading too much into it, but she couldn't shake the feeling that at some point, one of those had been meant for her. "I've seen these before, I know how to hold it, thank you." Drawing nearer to the door, she stood in the shadow of the dresser, inwardly wrestling with the idea of leaving. "And as for the bullets –"

The telltale ringing of a cell phone.

Muffled shouting drifting from the living room, her mouth clamped shut.

Falling flush against the wall, she brought the pistol higher, flashing him a warning he barely acknowledged. He wouldn't stop her, she knew, though he certainly wouldn't help her in any way either. Her throat burned as she swallowed, the rapid thud of footsteps in the hallway matching the beat of her heart in her ears.

What in hell was she going to do? Shoot him and alert the others? Knock him out? Grip tightening on the black handle, she waited stiffly as a hurried knock resounded through the bedroom, realizing she had no idea and she didn't give a damn about it. She just had to do _something_.

Knob quickly turned, the young man threw open the door.

Threw open the door and stared.

If her nerves hadn't been coiled on a spring, Anna might have chuckled, the way the thug's mouth nearly hit the floor in shock. His lips worked furiously to deliver whatever urgent message had driven him to the bedroom, but no sound emerged, attention entirely consumed by the Joker – no, _Jack_, she reminded herself – bound to the bed. The humbling of a God had occurred, the proof in the young man's questioning, incredulous, _disappointed_ eyes.

He hadn't even seen her.

Anna saw her chance.

Hiding from the living room's line of sight, she pressed the barrel to his temple, making sure he heard the telltale click of a weapon prepared to fire. A cell phone clutched in one hand, gun held loosely in the other, he only swallowed thickly, frantically scanning the determined set of her mouth from the corner of his eye. One level of her mind undoubtedly amused, she watched as his gaze flickered between her and the bed, barely able to wonder what had happened.

If she didn't know better, she would have thought the young thug could hear her heart pumping its way from her chest. Her voice was barely above a growl, held level despite the fear and adrenaline coursing violently through her veins. "Get in here. Don't make a sound and give me your weapon."

He edged into the room, flinching slightly as she snatched the much larger gun from his hands. This one, whatever it was, she hadn't used before, but she was sure it would be simple enough to figure out. In the meantime, she reset the safety pin, never glancing away nor removing the barrel from his temple. At the jerk of her head, he lifted his hands into the air, Adam's apple bobbing as he gulped in fright. Sure, he was a cocky bastard with the Joker around to protect him, but who would save him from the woman who had seemingly put the Boss in his… current _predicament_?

Anna was silently thankful the thug didn't know the whole story. If he did, she had a feeling he would be laughing, not sweating in fear.

Holding the other man's gaze, she could barely make out her husband just beyond the young man's shoulder, both wrath and amusement alternating upon his visage. He hadn't said a word, and she could only pray it stayed that way. Her tongue unconsciously licked her lips, sensing his stare upon the scars.

"Listen up. You're going to call to your friends and say that he uh, killed me. The Joker says they can all come in and help clean up, and forget about their guns for now. Make it convincing. If you so much as say _anything _else…" She grinned, making full effect of the way her scars stretched, eerily similar to her husband. Let his mind think up something, God knew she was too tired to. "Understand?"

The young man nodded as much as he could, gulping loudly. No doubt he was far more pliable now that he had seen the Joker as he really was, a man, neither true monster nor god. This man could not protect him, couldn't protect any of the thugs waiting in the living room. Unsurprisingly, his tone held the indescribable note of fear melded with confusion, voice more hoarse than she had expected. "Okay, okay, but please – listen, just… let me go. I'll take the others with me. I want to get out of here, we all do, they're just about to leave as-as it is…"

Scoffing, she pressed the muzzle further into his temple, ignoring the wince of pain that followed. "And I'm supposed to believe that? Why would you want to leave?"

His voice shook, light blue eyes pleading silently with her, having seen their protector so utterly brought down to earth.

"Because… because the entire fucking police force is on its way."

Her eyes locked with her husband's, and for once, the sharp intake of breath wasn't hers.

The winds of change were blowing, cold and cruel.

Racing across the bridge, Bruce could hear the familiar scream of police sirens, echoing through the city several blocks behind him. He clung to the shadows like a second skin, not daring to chance entering the cruel gaze of a streetlight for fear of facing a citizen's wrath. Not even the rage of a city could prevent him from being in the Narrows tonight, but it didn't mean he wanted to brave their righteous ire just yet.

His penthouse was dark and empty for the first time in days, devoid of his depressed and miserable persona haunting the hallways like an un-avenged specter. The Batpod hummed beneath him, carrying him over choppy expanses of dark water and onto cracked pavement and open sewers.

Samson Street, Samson Street… it repeated like a mantra inside his head, shining like a beacon in the darkness. The Joker was there, Anna was there, and to be honest, he couldn't decide which one was more satisfying. His redemption lie encased within one of these abandoned stone complexes, for if he could save just one person out of so many that had died, that would be enough.

In his heart, he knew that to be nothing but a lie, but it was the only thing keeping him going.

Gordon clung to the patrol receiver in his hand, his voice high and hoarse from having shouted many a command into its mouthpiece that night. "All units, I repeat _all _units to converge on 611 Samson Street in the Narrows. Form a perimeter around the apartment complex."

Hastily ending the transmission, he pulled his cell phone from a jacket pocket, hurriedly dialing the Mayor. Both the National Guard and most of the GPD followed behind his lead car, and the commissioner practically shook in apprehension as the deputy swerved onto the bridge. His heart hammered wildly to the point where a heart attack would have come as no surprise, merely an inconvenience as the Joker and his wife lay so close yet so far.

This time, he promised himself, this time they would have that madman behind bars and a padded door. This time, there would be no sloppy detainment, no silent SWAT vans parked on the docks with a bloodbath inside. No, it would be the Joker, this Jack Napier, who rode with the commissioner while Anna was hidden safely away. For she would be alive, Gordon promised himself, she would be alive.

In the back of his mind, he could faintly hear the sound of a jet plane leaving the runway, a scarred face framed in one of the tiny windows. She would be on that flight out of this goddamn city, if it was the last thing he would ever do.

A/N: And now they all converge! So, does Anna make it out alive? Does Gordon survive? To all of you who have been so supportive, _**THANK YOU!**_

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	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, you are all my heroes! Thank you to my anonymous reviewers: xxJokersgirlxx and Jenn! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. **

**Enjoy!**

Her eyes narrowing, she relieved the barrel's pressure against his head.

The police. She couldn't help the hope flooding like wine through her veins, yet refused to allow it to make her careless.

Anna had no doubt they wanted to leave, being caught with the Joker was a done deal as far as County was concerned. And, from what Gordon had revealed, her husband had made quite a few silent enemies in the dark recesses of that prison, dangerous individuals content to take out their revenge on a cohort rather than the seemingly unbeatable man himself. No, they wouldn't survive long in County, especially not a young thing like this one.

Pulling the gun from his temple, she gestured towards the door with the muzzle, the relief in his eyes not escaping her. "Take your friends and get out of here. Anyone left in that room after two minutes gets a bullet in the brain." She couldn't afford one of them thinking it through and deciding that as a witness, she should be silenced.

Whispering a hurried thank you, the thug practically dashed from the room, leaving his gun in her care. Some part of her urged that she should pick him off, quickly and silently, as he retreated, that she would be doing the city a favor. He was more than likely scum off Gotham's streets, probably about to celebrate his good fortune with a rape or mugging after fleeing the apartment complex, but she didn't know that for sure.

It wasn't in her nature to play God.

Pressing a hand to her head, she tried to stifle the beginnings of a migraine, her heart pounding in her sensitive ears. Three or so days without a drink, and her body was beginning to protest even as the craving simmered within her chest. If she dared to hope, she might be safe with a beer in her hands in a few hours.

Might be.

The rasp of the rope as it rubbed futilely against the wood shook her back to life, observing with detached amusement as he struggled harshly to free himself. The ropes wouldn't give, but the headboard might, a silent cross of her fingers the only protection she could give it. His legs thrashed wildly, shoulders rolling in ways she hadn't thought possible, a snarl on his jagged lips.

"You should'a just…" Grunting, he pulled on the headboard, the mattress hitting it with a thud, "_killed_ the bastard. He would of done the same thing to you, if given a –" A curse flew from his lips as he pinned one of his wrists between the wall and wood, frantically rocking to use the sharp wooden corner as a sort of saw. "A chance, _darling_."

Gaze flickering between the open door and her husband, she tightened her grip on the thug's weapon. She removed the safety hammer with a click, unsure if she would be able to shoot the hulking thing. "Right now, I don't really care, Jack, as long as they get the hell out. They have a minute – _you _have a minute – and then I'm leaving."

A howl of rage tore from his mouth and she flinched at the sound.

His eyes snapping to hers with lightning intensity, the murky brown depths proved hard and mercurial. Nearly trapped by the fury held there, she saw through the mask to the disappointment beneath, a crushing feeling that seemed to rip the breath from his chest in harsh gasps.

A small part of her broke, even as she tried to sweep the pieces out of sight. She was leaving, _again_, even if he had held her against her will. For a man like Jack, betrayal was betrayal no matter what name was used to cloak it.

Thin trickle of blood trailing down his forearm, he didn't seem to notice as he thrashed with renewed vigor. "You're. Leaving. M_e?_"

"Yeah." Anna swallowed thickly, taking a few steps towards the door. "But if you're lucky, I guess, you'll be found by the Batman."

He wheezed in what was supposed to be laughter, she figured, but it came out as something between a choked sob and a chuckle. Her free with a gun was permissible as long as the men in the hallway would complete their task, thereby chaining her to his bedside in fear and self-preservation. Remove the men and add the police, however… apparently things weren't going _according to plan_.

Or maybe they were, and he was playing with her. The odds were high that he would escape yet again, whether before or after the police arrived, it honestly didn't seem to matter.

With any luck, they would be able to hold him this time.

He had fallen into a bizarre sort of rhythm as he pulled against the wooden baluster of the headboard, entire body rocking and shaking to rip through the rope, strand by strand. The surreal, animalistic ferocity driving his body captured her gaze, and Anna tilted her head in bemusement. Each word kept time with his thrashing, a grin splitting his scarred lips. "Even with those men gone, you know what's gonna happen if you leave, right? I _told_ you before, but… you don't seem to understan-d. Go _run_, go _hi_-de, Anna, go _do_ whatever, it is, that makes you feel safe, because it ain't going to last. I'm _better _than that, and so are _you_. You will be worth it, and some day, you will see why _I _am too."

Shaking her head, she jerked free of his mental hold, her feet taking her carefully the rest of the way to the door. His eyes bored into hers, like they had the last time she had ever seen him in their old lives.

"You understand _now_, Anna? Do you finally understand?"

Her back to the corridor, she stood silently in the doorway, shoes precariously spanning the threshold. Tucking the folded switchblade into her pocket, she allowed him to see the action, her features unreadable as she realized she didn't even know which one of them was the blade's true owner. It truly didn't matter at this point, with one foot in the hallway, the other still planted firmly on the brink.

Appraising him calmly, she perceived the greenish curls, the yellowed and jagged smile, taut muscles, brown eyes so full of power and sorrow, lines of blood streaking his torso and stomach. The image was allowed to burn itself into her memory, filed away with the others in a place she could never seem to ignore. He was lying on _their _bed, the bed upon which she and Jack had talked, made love, argued, laughed, _lived_.

Breathing heavily, she clumsily reached for the doorknob and stepped into the hallway.

Unable to break his stare, the creaking of the door was in her ears even as Jack was in her mind, pulling on the strings which ran between and sending agony through them both. A part of her wanted to lay a kiss on his brow; another would rather send a bullet and save the trip. Yet another wanted both, but she refrained from all three.

She had loved him at one point; she supposed part of her still did. In love with the memories of her husband, seemingly left at his side behind the closing door.

A last glimmer of his smile, and it clicked shut.

_I'm a woman of my word._

The wind had picked up from across the harbor.

Leaving the Batpod in an alleyway between two of the abandoned buildings, Bruce darted through the shadows, thankful that the armor shielded his skin from the bite of the wind. Gravel crunching under his feet, the smaller complex, 611 Samson Street, loomed before him, its own height eclipsed many times over by its grim neighbors. Twelve floors of cracked windows and moldering cement, a former refuge for Gotham's poor or unconnected, reeking like the rest of the Narrows.

An unusual place for the Joker to set up operations, to say the least.

He had been forced to utilize a land assault upon discovering that the roof had no building access, a hallmark of a hurried and sub-par contractor pocketing a bit of extra funds. With no idea what floor the Joker and his captive were stationed, Bruce couldn't afford to enter by window, choosing instead to enter the old-fashioned and decidedly unpredictable way.

The front door.

Reaching for a handle, he attempted to peer through the shadow lying like mist inside, slipping into the antechamber with barely a sound. The next set of doors opened as readily, whatever alarm or lock system traditionally in place apparently having been turned off.

Avoiding the dim city-light seeping through grimy door panes, he kept to the shadows at the edge of the lobby, his eyes quickly becoming used to the dark. A rustle from the other end of the room and his attention leapt to its source, drawing closer to the elevators as he endeavored to keep his step as light as possible on the plaster-strewn floor. There was a figure there, crouching in shadow against the far wall in view of the doors, something held within their hands.

Raising his fist to release a batarang, a strip of plaster cracked beneath his boot.

A face snapped upwards, pale features just visible in the diffuse light, eyes wide and reflecting. Bruce heard the telltale click of a weapon before its barrel was pointed in his direction, a soft cough as someone squinted into the darkness.

"Move and I shoot. Who are you?"

Startled by the feminine tones, he lowered his arm, barely even allowing himself to believe this was the one he sought. On the slim chance it was Anna, why was she curled down here and cradling a gun, where was the Joker?

His voice was a mere rasp. "Batman."

"Batman?" The figure cocked its head and the weapon returned to her side, used as support in attempting to stand. Wobbling on unsure legs, Bruce watched as she clung to a ledge before raising a hand in greeting. "Well in that case… it's Anna. I thought you were one of them."

"One of who?"

"One of the goons from upstairs, I told 'em to scram but was afraid they'd come back just in case." Holding a hand to her head, she swayed unsteadily, though her voice remained strong.

Drawing closer, he recognized the shadowed features, lined with strain and exhaustion. To be honest, she looked worse than when he had glimpsed her upon the rooftop, the thought sending a pang of regret through his heart. There was no telling what the madman had done to her in the meantime, though given the bloodstains and deep circles beneath her eyes, it couldn't have been good. At least she was alive, if only that.

"How long have you been down here?"

Glancing around at the ruined foyer, he couldn't help the note of perplexity in his tone. The situation didn't exactly suggest a trap, but it was beyond odd for more than one reason. There was no way in hell, he knew, that the Joker would just let her _go_, nor was there any chance she would have overpowered him.

Anna shrugged, a dark overcoat swathing her shoulders; no wonder he had not been able to see her earlier. "Five minutes, I guess, I really don't know. Not long. I'm just waiting for Gordon to arrive, and it's warmer in here –" She gestured around the lobby, "than it is out there."

"You know Gordon is coming?"

"Yeah, one of the thugs barged in and said so. He got a phone call, don't know from whom."

Gaze sweeping across the room once more, it fell upon the elevator, chrome doors pressed ominously together. At any moment he expected the doors to part and reveal a grinning nightmare, greasepaint reflecting eerily in the dim light, a Glock held firmly in hand. "And the Joker simply let you go. Where is he?"

Chuckling hollowly, she glanced at the elevator before returning her weary eyes to his own. "Jack? He's a bit uh, tied up at the moment. And, not exactly, though I wish it was that simple." Bruce wasn't certain what was so funny, but he didn't have to wait long for the ghost-like grin to fade from her lips, a wan grimace sprouting like asphodel in its place. "Tenth floor, Room 1008. I can't promise he's still there, he's adamant to remain free and was working through the ropes even while I was in the room."

Sensing his shock, she jerked her head in direction of the elevator, her stare trailing his form as he followed her advice. "I don't think he has, but if he's managed to free himself, he's armed. So keep your eyes open, it's not well-lit upstairs."

Bruce nodded as he entered the tiny box, muscles humming in anticipation of a fight. Selecting the proper floor, he leveled his gaze as the doors began to close, commanding her to do what she should have minutes ago. "Go wait outside for Gordon – I don't want you in here if anything happens."

_If he escapes_, Bruce whispered silently. _And knowing the Joker, he will come straight for you._

She couldn't say what had compelled her to stay inside.

It was freezing on the street, she told herself, and to be truthful the wind cut through her jacket to chill the flesh beneath as if it hadn't existed at all. The Batman obviously didn't understand this fact, clothed in armor and elastic fiber as he was, and so couldn't foresee the consequences of his order. Pulling the dark fabric tighter around her form, she stifled a shiver and stared upwards, unable to view her flat from this angle yet wondering what was happening nonetheless. No one had been tossed from a window, so that had to be a good sign.

The guns at her feet, Anna could barely think for the icy tendrils slipping into both skin and mind. She couldn't erase her last glimpse of Jack, his blazing eyes the sole source of warmth to be found in the shadowed, cold world of the Narrows. He was seemingly etched into the back of her eyelids, his laughter slicing through the migraine to echo inside her head.

A laughter which, after some seconds, melded with the distant shriek of police sirens.

Pursing her lips, she gauged them to be a good six blocks away, practically able to tick off each fewer block on her fingers as they neared. By the way the cacophony seemed to emit from every direction, it was clear they intended to establish a perimeter, though she honestly hoped it would not prove necessary. The one thing she wanted – well, one of the things she wanted – was for Jack to be locked safely away in a padded room, treated by professionals and rendered incapable of harm.

Years ago, the thought of his confinement would have probably horrified her.

The first few rays of headlights appeared on the top of Samson, vehicles speeding like giant insects across the gravel and cracked pavement. Wincing as the sheer number of sirens proven deafening, she averted her eyes from the blinding, flashing lights, both relief and dread flooding her veins. Brakes screeched as the patrollers halted at the curb, men in uniform spilling from their drab interiors.

Alarmed to find several pistols at first trained on her, she welcomed the sudden appearance of Gordon from one of the squad cars, fiercely giving orders to advance. Swaying as twenty or so officers rushed past her towards the door, she grinned weakly at his approach, eagerly taking the blanket he offered.

"Thanks, commissioner. I know you're probably… shocked, at my being out here."

To say he was stunned was an understatement, of course, the man looked as if he was about to have a heart attack. He kept smoothing back his hair, dividing his attention between the former hostage and his men now entering the lobby.

"It's not exactly what I was expecting, I'll admit, but I'm not complaining. I want the full story back at the MCU, but for now, where's the Joker?"

Pointing towards her floor, she raised her voice above the sirens and officers' commands. "Tenth floor, Room 1008. Your _friend_ –" She paused as he relayed the information into his radio, no doubt directing the first wave of police to secure the building. "Your friend's already in there, and with any luck has him."

Although she had no idea why, Anna simply couldn't reveal how she had left him, not to the commissioner of police. She owed nothing to the Joker, but it seemed wrong, unfair somehow, for her to betray Jack in such a petty manner. It would be enough that they captured him, the entire police force didn't need to know about their games as well.

He must have seen a flash of melancholy cross her face, because he fumbled in his pocket for his keys.

Shouting another order into the radio, Gordon sighed and beckoned for her to follow him, leading her to the car he had leapt out of earlier. With a worried smile he opened the passenger door for her, his quiet voice almost lost in the din surrounding them. "We'll get you back to the MCU soon, and put you up in a hotel for the night. Just try to hold on a bit longer Anna, you look exhausted."

_So do you, Commissioner_, she wanted to say, but swallowed the words before they could leave her lips. Instead she merely thanked him, tugging the blanket around her shoulders as she nestled into the worn leather of the patroller, the door closing with a dull thud beside her. She watched through the windshield as he returned to his post nearer the door, waving his arm to direct the numerous men under his administration. Being the commissioner and chasing such a high-profile target, he had to take care of business first; questions could come later.

Empty.

Anna felt empty.

Detachedly she observed as six or so snipers took up places lining the front walk, others climbing onto the tops of the police vehicles and training their weapons towards the door. They were preparing for something at Gordon's command, something large by the looks of it – either they had caught her husband, or they had caught the Batman. Knuckles ashen from where they gripped the blanket, she could only pray it was the former.

Leaning forward, she felt her breath hitch in her throat, eyes widening as a throng of policemen moved through the dilapidated lobby. They were restraining someone by the looks of it, each man with a limb and more with pistols targeting the figure in their midst. She couldn't quite see who it was, couldn't quite make it out, now if that one woman would only shift ever so slightly _right _–

A flash of green-blond hair.

She expelled the breath she didn't know she was holding, gaze locking onto what she knew was her husband. Arms tied behind him, she figured that was the Batman's doing, since no policeman could have re-tied him once letting the mad dog off his leash. Moments later, the woman leading stepped completely aside, revealing Jack, strong and bleached in the yellow light of the cruisers, every inch of skin bared to see. Except he wasn't quiet or ashamed like any normal individual, he was _cackling_, thrashing just to thrash against his captors and yelling something at Gordon, standing frozen meters away.

His tongue darted greedily over his lips, chin up and smiling grandly, loving the attention. He was high off the rush that came with their shock, their disgust, Anna figured, fueling his own mirth as they led him toward the patroller two cars in front of her own. Mouth opening, she slunk lower in the seat, her eyes peering over the dashboard to observe his violent struggling, more to amuse himself than to actually escape.

Head turning just _so_, he accidentally caught sight of her.

Something sparking in his gaze, he launched in her direction, the power coiled in his body nearly pulling five others along with him. A grin upon his lips, he bellowed in her direction but the words were lost on the wind, limbs straining to pull free of their captors and join her. Jerking his head towards the building, he continued to yell, never taking his eyes off her even he was thrown into the back of the patroller.

Gordon himself slammed the door, a shaky smile in place.

Like most things in Gotham, it wouldn't last long.

The sound rocking the car with its energy, the windows of the tenth story exploded outwards.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed that! I figured there is no way the Joker would want anything in that apartment discovered, and is essentially destroying that phase of their life. Without her, it means nothing to him. Yes, I can tell you, there were people up on the tenth floor at the time, which the Joker was counting on.

**PLEASE REVIEW **


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Wow, here it is… the last chapter. It has been such a long and amazing road, thank you to EVERYONE who has reviewed this story, you have provided an immense amount of support, praise, laughter, and constructive criticism. You've truly made this story what it is, and I thank you truly. I hope you have enjoyed it even a little bit, for then I will be satisfied. Thank you again to everyone, there are no words I can use to describe how wonderful you all are! At the bottom I have some special acknowledgments I want to make, so please read those too… **

**The ending is complete, and everything is implied that is not explicitly stated. I don't want to do a sequel, I like ending it here. I am asking that if you have read my story, please comment on it, even if you hated it. Please just say something if you read this chapter, as it is the last. ****_PLEASE REVIEW. _**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman. **

**Enjoy!**

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She gazed out the vast wall of tinted windows, her breath fogging the glass in her hands.

Somewhere beyond the long stretches of tarmac, the dilapidated warehouses and abandoned tenements, the skyline of New York rose electric and transcendent into the air. The airport was in no position to take advantage of its beauty, but she could vaguely remember seeing it as a teenager, one of the few trips her family ever made from Gotham. The view from the sleek town car as it crossed into Queens had done little to supplement it, the early morning mist and pitch black of night enveloping the glimmering lights.

Somewhere beyond _that_, she knew, was Gotham.

Shuddering, she pushed such thoughts from her mind.

Polishing off the last of her sipping scotch, she surrendered her glass for another, thankful that the Gotham Police Department had endowed her with cash for such _necessary expenses_. So far that had included a shot of vodka and soon to be two glasses of scotch, as well as the tiny card of the sort one might attach to flowers currently burning within her pocket.

Thanking the bartender, she ignored his puzzled stare – whether it was because she was drinking at six in the morning or her scars had begun to show, she didn't think she wanted to know. More to reassure herself, she fixed the scarf wrapped snugly around her mouth, pulled down just low enough for her lip to catch the glass.

The golden liquid burning its way down, she glanced down at her hands, eyes catching sight of the ID still lying on the counter. It seemed to mock her, the woman staring back at her so different from the one she had been all her life. The hair was the wrong color, eyes the wrong color, and she looked too serene and indifferent to be Anna Napier.

Though according to the ID, that was no longer her name.

Instead of the familiar letters spanning the blue license, there was another's name, the name of someone Anna was sure she could never be. They had even made her older by a few years, she noticed, yet she couldn't blame them – the mirror had revealed a more haggard and aged countenance than it had seen before.

It wasn't they who deserved the blame.

Before she had left Gotham, Gordon had brought her to a tiny conference room, saying that if she wished to leave at any time, she could. Inside had waited two men, a lawyer and his client, a hulking figure of a man she would never forget as long as she lived. She had felt oddly detached, tamping down the memories that threatened to submerge her as she appraised his tired, _normal_ face. He had an average, clean, _unblemished _visage, one she would have killed to have again. Did he understand what he had put her through the night he scarred her? Did he?

No, he didn't. She hadn't really expected him to.

Anna had left then, one corner of her mind clamoring for his blood, yet in essence the sentiment was hollow. An emptiness took root inside her, displacing the last vestiges of fury still lingering in the deepest recesses of her mind. She had made her peace with that phase of her life, had vowed to set aside the past as much as she could, for as _long_ as she could.

Not that it mattered much anyway.

If she had correctly heard snippets of Gordon's conversation later that night, her husband had apparently done more than clamor. Why they had revealed his identity and then taken him into see his former boss, she would never know, but it seemed irrational yet appropriate. The mobster would not be leaving emergency any time soon, and she could honestly say she didn't care.

Sipping shallowly, she fingered the edge of the manila envelope in her lap, warring with the idea of examining its contents. It was almost six-thirty, the time Gordon had urged she finally find out the course of her new life, no matter how she wanted to remain in this limbo. The rational part of her mind taking over, she replaced her glass upon the counter, before deftly unpeeling the flap and reaching inside. It was much as she expected, flipping through the papers: a plane ticket set to leave in an hour – her eyebrows shot up at the destination, she wasn't too fond of the rain – a list of numbers should she run into trouble, a list of contacts at several banks and police departments in the area. She would need those, she figured, wanting to go back into finance at some point, maybe find a job as an accountant.

About to slip the packet back into its covering, two smaller items amidst the large sheets met her eye. They were pictures, the white backing and cramped writing revealing them to be Polaroids taken the day before.

Tilting her head, she flipped them over, swallowing at the sight revealed to the world.

Asleep, he seemed almost innocent, freshly scrubbed locks falling gently over the starched white of the asylum pillow. The blond seeped through the brown and green, framing a face slack with slumber and bereft of all paint whatsoever. A second pillow crushed to his chest by one powerful arm, the long fingers were loosely curled into a fist, the nails filed and clean. He laid on his side, facing the camera, the white uniform clashing oddly with his olive skin, one leg bent. It was a sight that few had glimpsed, the Joker – _Jack _– asleep and rendered human by its charms. Even in her mind, especially in her mind, it was difficult to reconcile the two, reconcile the shy, quirky young man with the sociopath who bombed train stations.

He was sedated, that much was obvious.

Jack would have slept with his right arm beneath the pillow.

A thumb gently tracing the pale margin, she finally noticed the words written there. The sloping hand had to be Gordon's, and she couldn't help but chuckle at his choice of a quote, no matter how her heart still ached in more ways than one.

_I lingered round them, under that benign sky… and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth._

After a few moments of thought, Anna recognized it, the last line of _Wuthering Heights_, a novel of passion and unrequited love, violence and fate. It did fit, she supposed, for God knew Gordon was being tongue-in-cheek in his selection; the Joker would not lie quiet until death, and neither would she. She would escape for a little while, of that she had no doubt, but there was no guarantee it would remain so forever. The grave – that was her refuge, the final haven and sanctuary from her husband, and even that wasn't absolute. He would follow as soon as he escaped, and they would go round and round, round and round, until all… fell… down.

Perhaps she had made a mistake in coming here, but she didn't want to think so.

Softly shifting the photo behind the other, she felt the warm tide of compassion recede, replaced by a cooler more respectful flow. This one had been taken through the glass of an observation mirror, unlike the other taken directly in the cell. And no wonder, in this one, he was awake.

His eyes were surprisingly clear, staring into the distance as he leaned against the wall, his legs nonchalantly extended upon his bed. The white of the uniform blended eerily with the washed-out ash of the walls, his hair and dark eyes forming a chiaroscuro against his surroundings. He stared down and a little to the left, down to the floor …

There in the middle of the floor was a collection of bright green peas, pinpricks of color arranged in orderly lines and elegant curves. It was as if he hadn't masterminded their placement, merely noticing them for the first time, amused by whatever jokester had seen fit to convey himself through so odd a means.

_I always know where she is. _

Anna furrowed her brows, unsure if she should be entertained or frightened. A bit of both, she supposed, a bit of honor and a bit of horror that he was still thinking of her. The apartment had been destroyed, taking three people in the process, but it didn't seem like he had any intention of leaving his obsession to burn with it.

No, he was a man of his word.

Sucking in a breath, she pressed a hand to her head, the general feel of a headache building behind her eyes. One last look at her husband and the pictures disappeared into the envelope, leaving her to hold her head in one weary hand. Her wrist was still marred by rope burns from days ago, palm flecked with minute slashes of the knife she had asked Gordon to fed-ex when she arrived in her new apartment.

She wasn't quite sure why she kept it – or rather, she wasn't quite sure she wanted to think on why she kept it. The blade would probably sit in her bedside drawer until whenever he came to claim it, she could almost see the image in her mind's eye. They were too similar for her to abandon it, the metal too much an integral part of her twisted psyche to be left on the side of the road.

Was she twisted?

Finishing the last of her scotch, she couldn't say.

Broken?

No, not broken.

Forgiving?

Not a chance in hell.

More understanding?

Perhaps, perhaps more understanding of the ties between them… reaching into her overcoat pocket – a new one, this time in dark green – she removed the tiny card and its much larger envelope, purchased on a whim in the City News store closer to the terminal entrance. A stamp was already on the envelope, just waiting for her to fill in an address.

Gesturing to the bartender, she called him closer. "You got a pen?"

He reached beneath the counter and wordlessly handed one over, her only reply a smile masked by the purple fabric.

Opening the solid color card, she paused to think, airport pen poised delicately over the pristine white interior. It wasn't quite the same hue as his cell, she doubted that was ever used besides in hospitals and asylums, but it would do.

_Jack – _

His voice echoed within her head, the last words he said to her resounding through the halls and crevices of her mind. Squeezing her eyes shut, she attempted half-heartedly to block them out, yet resisted quelling it entirely, some inner urge staying her hand. This was to be accepted, this was to be worked through and made part of her, somewhere that it could never hurt her again.

_To love someone is to see him as God intended him. I think I finally understand that now. _

It was Dostoevsky, something she had learned over the years in their personal library beside the bed. If anything could summarize how she felt, it was ironic that perhaps this man came closest. Jack was who he was, no matter who or what had launched him upon that path. Wasted potential, certainly, but it was more than that – who was to say that the Joker was the distortion, and not Jack himself? Who was to say which was the true face?

They both were.

_Goodbye, Jack._

– _Anna_

Closing the card, she slipped it inside the envelope, wondering for the umpteenth time why she was doing this. She flipped the envelope to its face, the swallow on the stamp seeming too cheery for a message of such tone and import. The pen scratching on the off-white paper, she inked in the asylum's address, not too far from her old home in the Narrows. Her tongue sliding along the flap – a jolt running through her as she thought of his own upon scarred lips – she pressed the seal closed.

The loudspeaker crackled to life, and the heads of the half-filled terminal jerked upward to listen.

Flight 401 was boarding at Gate 14.

Gaze flicking to her ticket, Anna sighed, reaching into her pocket to summon two tens and a five. Drinks at the airport were ridiculously overpriced; no doubt Jack would have had something to say about that, some jab along the lines of too much piss for too much money. A grimace taking hold of her lips, she pushed back from the bar, reaching for her carry-on.

Well this was it; this was the chance to run away, to leave, to start anew.

Pleasant for a dream, but a lie all the same.

Her heels clicking on the tile, she sighted a mailbox and strolled towards it, pushing the envelope into the gaping maw of the beast. Perhaps it would reach him, perhaps it wouldn't – either way, she had a feeling he didn't need a letter to occupy his thoughts. He certainly didn't need one to know her own.

Memories flowed through her mind, like a sluiceway recently opened. That damn Italian restaurant, first kiss, their wedding day, the _honeymoon_ spent on a rooftop garden, the first time they ever whispered _I love you_ in the dark. The first time she gambled, making love, seeing his smile outlined against cold cement and a flowerpot in the window. Their games, controlling and being controlled, the kisses that would follow, the comfortable silences and the rush of words. Her scarring and then his, hearing the slam of the door, living day by day in an unfamiliar city, missing his familiar grin.

That was it.

Living day by day in an unfamiliar city, missing Jack's familiar grin and hating it all the same.

Joining the flow of humanity, she walked silently and surely towards the Gate, a coldness seeping throughout her chest. In the crowd of westward-bound pilgrims, she would have never guessed that a representative shadow, an impromptu sentry, trailed behind her dark form, a sentry that would watch and wait for his master's command. Two eyes never left her back, and would never leave it, filing away each detail until the time it was needed.

And it would be needed, not someday but _some day_. The shadow knew it and she knew it, miles away, a man counted on it.

So she walked, silently and surely, on.

--

A/N: And... there it is! Just a bit of a tidbit, Gordon said in the first chapter that sleep was the great equalizer, and all he wanted was for the Joker to be sedated behind bars. I wanted to end with that, since I opened with it. She is leaving on a plane for an implied city, with no intentions of returning. Jack, however, has made it clear some day he will join her, though I don't intend to write a sequel about that.

Life doesn't come with concrete endings... however, I would love to hear your opinion on this one. Please, even if you hated it!

Acknowledgements:

My wonderful and constant reviewers, to name but a few: NicolinaN, butterflye, TriniLi, Harlequin Sequins, Dragonsinger13, Hordepally, PoorHuni, BleedingForYou, TheDisasterousChibi, nightingaleraven, Incarnate009, honeycreatures, ScarlettWaters, sparrowed, WornOutDancingShoes, AngelofaJedi, SylarsBitch, xxJokersgirlxx, Jenn, Censes, ShatteredBlackHeart, Nelle07, SayuriStang, Halfmoonglasses, among many wonderful others.

Bleeding For You, who helped me out with the more technical aspects of this fic. I am truly indebted to her!

PoorHuni, for being just absolutely marvelous and giving tons of moral support. I couldn't have made it through some of the rougher parts without her.

Harlequin Sequins, whose amazing and intrepid story inspired me to submit my own. She was one of my earliest supporters, and I thank her.

And to everyone who has read or reviewed this story, I thank you from the bottom of my heart!

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I am asking that if you have read my story, please comment on it, even if you hated it. Please just say something if you read this chapter, as it is the last. **_PLEASE REVIEW. _**


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